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:  THE  WOLVES  OF  GOD 


1 1!  i  AND  OTHER  FEY  STORJFS 


HO     ALGERNON  BIACKWO*:-:, 

lit  If      &  WILFRED  WIL»;  >-N 


(  I 


i 


ill 


THE  WOLVES  OF  GOD 


The  Wolves  of  God 

And  Other  Fey  Stories 


By 

ALGERNON    BLACKWOOD 

and 

WILFRED  WILSON 


GASSELL   AND   COMPANY,   LTD 

London,   New  York,  Toronto  and  Melbourne 


First  published  1021 


To  the  Memory  of 
Our  Camp-fires  in  the  Wilderness 


475887 


CONTENTS 


1.  THE  WOLVES  OF  GOD 

2.  CHINESE  MAGIC 

3.  RUNNING  WOLF 

4.  FIRST  HATE 

5.  THE  TARN  OF  SACRIFICE         .... 

6.  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  BEASTS  . 

7.  THE  CALL      ...  ... 

8.  EGYPTIAN  SORCERY 

9.  THE  DECOY 

10.  THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  OUT    .... 

11.  THE  EMPTY  SLEEVE 

12.  WIRELESS  CONFUSION 

13.  CONFESSION 

14.  THE  LANE  THAT  RAN  EAST  AND  WEST    . 

AND 

15.  "VENGEANCE  is  MINE  "  (by  Algernon  Blackwood) 


FACE 

I 

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53    < 
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243  v 

265 

285 


THE   WOLVES   OF    GOD 

i 
THE  WOLVES  OF  GOD 


As  the  little  steamer  entered  the  bay  of  Kettletaft  in  the 
Orkneys  the  beach  at  Sanday  appeared  so  low  that  the 
houses  almost  seemed  to  be  standing  in  the  water;  and 
to  the  big",  dark  man  leaning  over  the  rail  of  the  upper 
deck  the  sight  of  them  came  with  a  pang  of  mingled 
pain  and  pleasure.  The  scene,  to  his  eyes,  had  not 
changed.  The  houses,  the  low  shore,  the  flat  treeless 
country  beyond,  the  vast  open  sky,  all  looked  exactly  the 
same  as  when  he  left  the  island  thirty  years  ago  to  work 
for  the  Hudson  Bay  Company  in  distant  N.W.  Canada. 
A  lad  of  eighteen  then,  he  was  now  a  man  of  forty-eight, 
old  for  his  years,  and  this  was  the  home-coming  he  had 
so  often  dreamed  about  in  the  lonely  wilderness  of  trees 
where  he  had  spent  his  life.  Yet  his  grim  face  wore  an 
anxious  rather  than  a  tender  expression.  The  return 
was  perhaps  not  quite  as  he  had  pictured  it. 

Jim  Peace  had  not  done  too  badly,  however,  in  the 
Company's  service.  For  an  islander,  he  would  be  a 
rich  man  now;  he  had  not  married,  he  had  saved  the 
greater  part  of  his  salary,  and  even  in  the  far-away  Post 
where  he  had  spent  so  many  years  there  had  been  occa- 
sional opportunities  of  the  kind  common  to  new,  wild 
countries  where  life  and  law  are  in  the  making.  He  had 
not  hesitated  to  take  them.  None  of  the  big  Company 


v     .\-  :£ke.'  Wolves  of  God 


t  ;was  tRie.;  had  come  his  way,  nor  had  he  risen 
very  high  in  the  service;  in  another  two  years  his  turn 
would  have  come,  yet  he  had  left  of  his  own  accord  before 
those  two  years  were  ap.  His  decision,  judging  by  the 
strength  in  the  features,  was  not  due  to  impulse;  the 
move  had  been  deliberately  weighed  and  calculated;  he 
had  renounced  his  opportunity  after  full  reflection.  A 
man  with  those  steady  eyes,  with  that  square  jaw  and 
determined  mouth,  certainly  did  not  act  without  good 
reason. 

A  curious  expression  now  flickered  over  his  weather- 
hardened  face  as  he  saw  again  his  childhood's  home, 
and  the  return,  so  often  dreamed  about,  actually  took 
place  at  last.  An  uneasy  light  flashed  for  a  moment  in 
the  deep-set  grey  eyes,  but  was  quickly  gone  again,  and 
the  tanned  visage  recovered  its  accustomed  look  of  stern 
composure.  His  keen  sight  took  in  a  dark  knot  of  figures 
on  the  landing-pier  —  his  brother,  he  knew,  among  them. 
A  wave  of  home-sickness  swept  over  him.  He  longed  to 
see  his  brother  again,  the  old  farm,  the  sweep  of  open 
country,  the  sand-dunes,  and  the  breaking  seas.  The 
smell  of  long-forgotten  days  came  to  his  nostrils  with 
its  sweet,  painful  pang  of  youthful  memories. 

How  fine,  he  thought,  to  be  back  there  in  the  old 
familiar  fields  of  childhood,  with  sea  and  sand  about 
him  instead  of  the  smother  of  endless  woods  that  ran 
a  thousand  miles  without  a  break.  He  was  glad  in  par- 
ticular that  no  trees  were  visible,  and  that  rabbits  scam- 
pering among  the  dunes  were  the  only  wild^  animals 
he  need  ever  meet.  .  .  . 

Those  thirty  years  in  the  woods,  it  seemed,  oppressed 
his  mind;  the  forests,  the  countless  multitudes  of  trees, 
had  wearied  him.  His  nerves,  perhaps,  had  suffered 
finally.  Snow,  frost  and  sun,  stars,  and  the  wind  had 
been  his  companions  during  the  long  days  and  endless 
nights  in  his  lonely  Post,  but  chiefly  —  trees.  Trees,  trees, 
trees!  On  the  whole,  he  had  preferred  them  in  stormy 


The  Wolves  of  God  3 

weather,  though,  in  another  way,  their  rigid  hosts,  'mid 
the  deep  silence  of  still  days,  had  been  equally  oppressive. 
In  the  clear  sunlight  of  a  windless  day  they  assumed  a 
waiting,  listening,  watching  aspect  that  had  something 
spectral  in  it,  but  when  in  motion — well,  he  preferred  a 
moving  animal  to  one  that  stood  stock-still  and  stared. 
Wind,  moreover,  in  a  million  trees,  even  the  lightest 
breeze,  drowned  all  other  sounds — the  howling  of  the 
wolves,  for  instance,  in  winter,  or  the  ceaseless  harsh 
barking  of  the  husky  dogs  he  so  disliked. 

Even  on  this  warm  September  afternoon  a  slight 
shiver  ran  over  him  as  the  background  of  dead  years 
loomed  up  behind  the  present  scene.  He  thrust  the 
picture  back,  deep  down  inside  himself.  The  self-control, 
the  strong,  even  violent  will  that  the  face  betrayed,  came 
into  operation  instantly.  The  background  was  back- 
ground ;  it  belonged  to  what  was  past,  and  the  past  was 
over  and  done  with.  It  was  dead.  Jim  meant  it  to  stay 
dead. 

The  figure  waving  to  him  from  the  pier  was  his 
brother.  He  knew  Tom  instantly ;  the  years  had  dealt 
easily  with  him  in  this  quiet  island;  there  was  no  start- 
ling, no  unkindly  change,  and  a  deep  emotion,  though 
unexpressed,  rose  in  his  heart.  It  was  good  to  be  home 
again,  he  realized,  as  he  sat  presently  in  the  cart,  Tom 
holding  the  reins,  driving  slowly  back  to  the  farm  at  the 
north  end  of  the  island.  Everything  he  found  familiar, 
yet  at  the  same  time  strange.  They  passed  the  school 
where  he  used  to  go  as  a  little  bare-legged  boy;  other 
boys  were  now  learning  their  lessons  exactly  as  he  used 
to  do.  Through  the  open  window  he  could  hear  the 
droning  voice  of  the  schoolmaster,  who,  though  invisible, 
wore  the  face  of  Mr.  Lovibond,  his  own  teacher. 

"Lovibond?"  said  Tom,  in  reply  to  his  question. 
"  Oh,  he's  been  dead  these  twenty  years.  He  went 
south,  you  know — Glasgow,  I  think  it  was,  or  Edinburgh. 
He  got  tvphoid." 


4  The  Wolves  of  God 

Stands  of  golden  plover  were  to  be  seen  as  of  old 
in  the  fields,  or  flashing  overhead  in  swift  flight  with  a 
whir  of  wings,  wheeling  and  turning  together  like  one 
huge  bird.  Down  on  the  empty  shore  ar  curlew  cried.  Its 
piercing  note  rose  clear  above  the  noisy  clamour  of  the 
gulls.  The  sun  played  softly  on  the  quiet  sea,  the  air 
was  keen  but  pleasant,  the  tang  of  salt  mixed  sweetly 
with  the  clean  smells  of  open  country  that  he  knew  so 
well.  Nothing  of  essentials  had  changed,  even  the  low 
clouds  beyond  the  heaving  uplands  were  the  clouds 
of  childhood. 

They  came  presently  to  the  sand-dunes,  where  rabbits 
sat  at  their  burrow-mouths,  or  ran  helter-skelter  across 
the  road  in  front  of  the  slow  cart. 

"They're  safe  till  the  colder  weather  comes  and  trap- 
ping begins,"  he  mentioned.  It  all  came  back  to  him  in 
detail. 

"  And  they  know  it,  too — the  canny  little  beggars," 
replied  Tom.  "  Any  rabbits  out  where  you've  been?  " 
he  asked  casually. 

"  Not  to  hurt  you,"  returned  his  brother  shortly. 

Nothing  seemed  changed,  although  everything  seemed 
different.  He  looked  upon  the  old,  familiar  things,  but 
with  other  eyes.  There  were,  of  course,  changes,  altera- 
tions, yet  so  slight,  in  a  way  so  odd  and  curious,  that 
they  evaded  him;  not  being  of  the  physical  order, 
they  reported  to  his  soul,  not  to  his  mind.  But  his  soul, 
being  troubled,  sought  to  deny  the  changes;  to  admit 
them  meant  to  admit  a  change  in  himself  he  had  deter- 
mined to  conceal  even  if  he  could  not  entirely  deny  it. 

"  Same  old  place,  Tom,"  came  one  of  his  rare  re- 
marks. "  The  years  ain't  done  much  to  it."  He  looked 
into  his  brother's  face  a  moment  squarely.  "  Nor  to 
you,  either,  Tom,"  he  added,  affection  and  tenderness 
just  touching  his  voice  and  breaking  through  a  natural 
reserve  that  was  almost  taciturnity. 

His  brother  returned  the  look;   and  something  in  that 


The  Wolves  of  God  5 

instant  passed  between  the  two  men,  something  of  under- 
standing that  no  words  had  hinted  at,  much  less  expressed. 
The  tie  was  real,  they  loved  each  other,  they  were  loyal, 
true,  steadfast  fellows.  In  youth  they  had  known  no 
secrets.  The  shadow  that  now  passed  and  vanished  left 
a  vague  trouble  in  both  hearts. 

"  The  forests,"  said  Tom  slowly,  "  have  made  a  silent 
man  of  you,  Jim.  You'll  miss  them  here,  I'm  thinking." 

"Maybe,"  was  the  curt  reply,   "but  I  guess  not." 

His  lips  snapped  to  as  though  they  were  of  steel  and 
could  never  open  again,  while  the  tone  he  used  made 
Tom  realize  that  the  subject  was  not  one  his  brother 
cared  to  talk  about  particularly.  He  was  surprised, 
therefore,  when,  after  a  pause,  Jim  returned  to  it  of  his 
own  accord.  He  was  sitting  a  little  sideways  as  he  spoke, 
taking  in  the  scene  with  hungry  eyes.  "  It's  a  queer 
thing,"  he  observed,  "to  look  round  and  see  nothing  but 
clean  empty  land,  and  not  a  single  tree  in  sight.  You  see, 
it  don't  look  natural  quite." 

Again  his  brother  was  struck  by  the  tone  of  voice, 
but  this  time  by  something  else  as  well  he  could  not 
name.  Jim  was  excusing  himself,  explaining.  The 
manner,  too,  arrested  him.  And  thirty  years  disappeared 
as  though  they  had  not  been,  for  it  was  thus  Jim  acted 
as  a  boy  when  there  was  something  unpleasant  he  had  to 
say  and  wished  to  get  it  over.  The  tone,  the  gesture, 
the  manner,  all  were  there.  He  was  edging  up  to  some- 
thing* he  wished  to  say,  yet  dared  not  utter. 

"  You've  had  enough  of  trees  then?  "  Tom  said  sym- 
pathetically, trying  to  help,  "and  things?  " 

The  instant  ithe  last  two  words  were  out  he  realized 
that  they  had  been  drawn  from  him  instinctively,  and 
that  it  was  the  anxiety  of  deep  affection  which  had 
prompted  them.  He  had  guessed  without  knowing  he 
had  guessed,  or  rather,  without  intention  or  attempt  to 
guess.  Jim  had  a  secret.  Love's  clairvoyance  had  dis- 
covered it,  though  not  yet  its  hidden  terms. 


6  The  Wolves  of  God 

"  I  have "  began  the  other,  then  paused,  evidently 

to  choose  his  words  with  care.  "I've  had  enough  of 
trees."  He  was  about  to  speak  of  something  that  his 
brother  had  unwittingly  touched  upon  in  his  chance 
phrase,  but  instead  of  finding  the  words  he  sought,  he 
gave  a  sudden  start,  his  breath  caught  sharply.  "What's 
that?  "  he  exclaimed,  jerking  his  body  round  so  abruptly 
that  Tom  automatically  pulled  the  reins.  "What  is 
it?" 

"A  dog  barking,"  Tom  answered,  much  surprised. 
"A  farm  dog  barking.  Why?  What  did  you  think  it 
was?  "  he  asked,  as  he  flicked  the  horse  to  go  on  again. 
"You  made  me  jump,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh.  "You're 
used  to  huskies,  ain't  you?  " 

"It  sounded  so — not  like  a  dog,  I  mean,"  came  the 
slow  explanation.  "It's  long  since  I  heard  a  sheep-dog 
bark,  I  suppose  it  startled  me." 

"Oh,  it's  a  dog  all  right,"  Tom  assured  him  com- 
fortingly, for  his  heart  told  him  infallibly  the  kind  of 
tone  to  use.  And  presently,  too,  he  changed  the  subject 
in  his  blunt,  honest  fashion,  knowing  that,  also,  was  the 
right  and  kindly  thing  to  do.  He  pointed  out  the  old 
farms  as  they  drove  along,  his  brother  silent  again,  sit- 
ting stiff  and  rigid  at  his  side.  "And  it's  good  to  have 
you  back,  Jim,  from  those  outlandish  places.  There  are 
not  too  many  of  the  family  left  now — just  you  and  I,  as 
a  matter  of  fact." 

"Just  you  and  I,"  the  other  repeated  gruffly,  but  in 
a  sweetened  tone  that  proved  he  appreciated  the  ready 
sympathy  and  tact.  "We'll  stick  together,  Tom,  eh? 
Blood's  thicker  than  water,  ain't  it?  I've  learnt  that 
much,  anyhow." 

The  voice  had  something  gentle  and  appealing  in  it, 
something  his  brother  heard  now  for  the  first  time.  An 
elbow  nudged  into  his  side,  and  Tom  knew  the  gesture 
was  not  solely  a  sign  of  affection,  but  grew  partly  also 
from  the  comfort  born  of  physical  contact  when  the 


The  Wolves  of  God  7 

/ 

heart  is  anxious.  The  touch,  like  the  last  words,  con- 
veyed an  appeal  for  help.  Tom  was  so  surprised  he 
couldn't  believe  it  quite. 

Scared !  Jim  scared !  The  thought  puzzled  and 
afflicted  him  who  knew  his  brother's  character  inside  out, 
his  courage,  his  presence  of  mind  in  danger,  his  resolu- 
tion. Jim  frightened  seemed  an  impossibility,  a  contra- 
diction in  terms;  he  was  the  kind  of  man  who  did  not 
know  the  meaning  of  fear,  who  shrank  from  nothing, 
whose  spirits  rose  highest  when  things  appeared  most 
hopeless.  It  must,  indeed,  be  an  uncommon,  even  a 
terrible  danger  that  could  shake  such  nerves ;  yet  Tom 
saw  the  signs  and  read  them  clearly.  Explain  them  he 
could  not,  nor  did  he  try.  All  he  knew  with  certainty 
was  that  his  brother,  sitting  now  beside  him  in  the  cart, 
hid  a  secret  terror  in  his  heart.  Sooner  or  later,  in  his 
own  good  time,  he  would  share  it  with  him. 

He  ascribed  it,  this  simple  Orkney  farmer,  to  those 
thirty  years  of  loneliness  and  exile  in  wild  desolate  places, 
without  companionship,  without  the  society  of  women, 
with  only  Indians,  husky  dogs,  a  few  trappers  or  fur- 
dealers  like  himself,  but  none  of  the  wholesome,  natural 
influences  that  sweeten  life  within  reach.  Thirty  years 
was  a  long,  long  time.  He  began  planning  schemes  to 
help.  Jim  must  see  people  as  much  as  possible,  and  his 
mind  ran  quickly  over  the  men  and  women  available.  In 
women  the  neighbourhood  was  not  rich,  but  there  were 
several  men  of  the  right  sort  who  might  be  useful,  good 
fellows  all.  There  was  John  Rossiter,  another  old  Hudson 
Bay  man,  who  had  been  factor  at  Cartwright,  Labrador, 
for  many  years,  and  had  returned  long  ago  to  spend  his 
last  days  in  civilization.  There  was  Sandy  McKay,  also 
back  from  a  long  spell  of  rubber-planting  in  Malay.  .  .  . 
Tom  was  still  busy  making  plans  when  they  reached  the 
old  farm  and  presently  sat  down  to  their  first  meal  together 
since  that  early  breakfast  thirty  years  ago  before  Jim 
caught  the  steamer  that  bore  him  off  to  exile — an  exile 


8  The  Wolves  of  God 

that  now  returned  him  with  nerves  unstrung  and  a  secret 
terror  hidden  in  his  heart. 

"I'll  ask  no  questions,"  he  decided.  "Jim  will  tell 
me  in  his  own  good  time.  And,  meanwhile,  I'll  get  him 
to  see  as  many  folks  as  possible."  He  meant  it  too;  yet 
not  only  for  his  brother's  sake.  Jim's  terror  was  so 
vivid  it  had  touched  his  own  heart  too. 

"Ah,  a  man  can  open  his  lungs  here  and  breathe!  " 
exclaimed  Jim,  as  the  two  came  out  after  supper  and 
stood  before  the  house,  gazing  across  the  open  country. 
He  drew  a  deep  breath  as  though  to  prove  his  assertion, 
exhaling  with  slow  satisfaction  again.  "  It's  good  to  see 
a  clear  horizon  and  to  know  there's  all  that  water  be- 
tween— between  me  and  where  I've  been."  He  turned 
his  face  to  watch  the  plover  in  the  sky,  then  looked 
towards  the  distant  shore-line  where  the  sea  was  just 
visible  in  the  long  evening  light.  "There  can't  be  too 
much  water  for  me,"  he  added,  half  to  himself.  "  I  guess 
they  can't  cross  water — not  that  much  water  at  any  rate." 

Tom  stared,  wondering  uneasily  what  to  make  of  it. 

"At  the  trees  again,  Jim?"  he  said  laughingly.  He 
had  overheard  the  last  words,  though  spoken  low,  and 
thought  it  best  not  to  ignore  them  altogether.  To  be 
natural  was  the  right  way,  he  believed,  natural  and 
cheery.  To  make  a  joke  of  anything  unpleasant,  he  felt, 
was  to  make  it  less  serious.  "I've  never  seen  a  tree  come 
across  the  Atlantic  yet,  except  as  a  mast — dead,"  he 
added. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  the  trees  just  then,"  was  the 
blunt  reply,  "but  of — something  else.  The  damned  trees- 
are  nothing,  though  I  hate  the  sight  of  'em.  Not  of 
much  account,  anyway  " — as  though  he  compared  them 
mentally  with  another  thing.  He  puffed  at  his  pipe  a 
moment. 

"They  certainly  can't  move,"  put  in  his  brotHer,  "nor 
swim  either." 

"Nor  another  thing,"  said  Jim,  his  voice  thick  sud- 


The  Wolves  of  God  9 

denly,  but  not  with  smoke,  and  his  speech  confused, 
though  the  idea  in  his  mind  was  certainly  clear  as  day- 
light. "Things  can't  hide  behind  'em — can  they?  " 

"Not  much  cover  hereabouts,  I  admit,"  laughed  Tom, 
though  the  look  in  his  brother's  eyes  made  his  laughter 
as  short  as  it  sounded  unnatural. 

"That's  so,"  agreed  the  other.  "But  what  I  meant 
was " — he  threw  out  his  chest,  looked  about  him  with 
an  air  of  intense  relief,  drew  in  another  deep  breath,  and 
again  exhaled  with  satisfaction — "  if  there  are  no  trees, 
there's  no  hiding." 

It  was  the  expression  on  the  rugged,  weathered  face 
that  sent  the  blood  in  a  sudden  gulping  rush  from  his 
brother's  heart.  He  had  seen  men  frightened,  seen  men 
afraid  before  they  were  actually  frightened ;  he  had  also 
seen  men  stiff  with  terror  in  the  face  both  of  natural  and 
so-called  supernatural  things ;  but  never  in  his  life  before 
had  he  seen  the  look  of  unearthly  dread  that  now  turned 
his  brother's  face  as  white  as  chalk  and  yet  put  the  glow 
of  fire  in  two  haunted  burning  eyes. 

Across  the  darkening  landscape  the  sound  of  distant 
barking  had  floated  to  them  on  the  evening  wind. 

"It's  only  a  farm-dog  barking."  Yet  it  was  Jim's 
deep,  quiet  voice  that  said  it,  one  hand  upon  his  brother's 
arm. 

"That's  all,"  replied  Tom,  ashamed  that  he  had  be- 
trayed himself,  and  realizing  with  a  shock  of  surprise 
that  it  was  Jim  who  now  played  the  r61e  of  comforter — a 
startling  change  in  their  relations.  "Why,  what  did  you 
think  it  was?  " 

He  tried  hard  to  speak  naturally  and  easily,  but  his 
voice  shook.  So  deep  was  the  brothers'  love  and  in- 
timacy that  they  could  not  help  but  share. 

Jim  lowered  his  great  head.     "I  thought,"  he  whis- 
pered, his  grey  beard  touching  the  other's  cheek,  "maybe 
it  was  the  wolves  " — an  agony  of  terror  made  both  voice 
and  body  tremble — "  the  Wolves  of  God  !  " 
B 


io  The  Wolves  of  God 


The  interval  of  thirty  years  had  been  bridged  easily 
enough;  it  was  the  secret  that  left  the  open  gap  neither 
of  them  cared  or  dared  to  cross.  Jim's  reason  for  hesi- 
tation lay  within  reach  of  guesswork,  but  Tom's  silence 
was  more  complicated. 

With  strong,  simple  men,  strangers  to  affectation  or 
pretence,  reserve  is  a  real,  almost  a  sacred  thing.  Jim 
offered  nothing  more;  Tom  asked  no  single  question. 
In  the  latter's  mind  lay,  for  one  thing,  a  singular  intuitive 
certainty  :  that  if  he  knew  the  truth  he  would  lose  his 
brother.  How,  why,  wherefore,  he  had  no  notion ; 
whether  by  death,  or  because,  having  told  an  awful  thing, 
Jim  would  hide — physically  or  mentally — he  knew  not, 
nor  even  asked  himself.  No  subtlety  lay  in  Tom,  the 
Orkney  farmer.  He  merely  felt  that  a  knowledge  of  the 
truth  involved  separation  which  was  death. 

Day  and  night,  however,  that  extraordinary  phrase 
which,  at  its  first  hearing,  had  frozen  his  blood,  ran  on 
beating  in  his  mind.  With  it  came  always  the  original, 
nameless  horror  that  had  held  him  motionless  where  he 
stood,  his  brother's  bearded  lips  against  his  ear  :  The 
Wolves  of  God.  In  some  dim  way,  he  sometimes  felt — 
tried  to  persuade  himself,  rather — the  horror  did  not  be- 
long to  the  phrase  alone,  but  was  a  sympathetic  echo  of 
what  Jim  felt  himself.  It  had  entered  his  own  mind  and 
heart.  They  had  always  shared  in  this  same  strange, 
intimate  way.  The  deep  brotherly  tie  accounted  for  it. 
Of  the  possible  transference  of  thought  and  emotion  he 
knew  nothing,  but  this  was  what  he  meant  perhaps. 

At  the  same  time  he  fought  and  strove  to  keep  it  out, 
hot  because  it  brought  uneasy  and  distressing  feelings 
to  him,  but  because  he  did  not  wish  to  pry,  to  ascertain, 
to  discover  his  brother's  secret  as  by  some  kind  of  subter- 


The  Wolves  of  God  n 

fuge  that  seemed  too  near  to  eavesdropping  almost. 
Also,  he  wished  most  earnestly  to  protect  him.  Mean- 
while, in  spite  of  himself,  or  perhaps  because  of  himself, 
he  watched  his  brother  as  a  wild  animal  watches  its 
young.  Jim  was  the  only  tie  he  had  on  earth.  He  loved 
him  with  a  brother's  love,  and  Jim,  similarly,  he  knew, 
loved  him.  His  job  was  difficult.  Love  alone  could 
guide  him. 

He  gave  openings,  but  he  never  questioned  : 

"Your  letter  did  surprise  me,  Jim.  I  was  never  so 
delighted  in  my  life.  You  had  still  two  years  to  run." 

"I'd  had  enough,"  was  the  short  reply.  "God,  man, 
it  was  good  to  get  home  again  !  " 

This,  and  the  blunt  talk  that  followed  their  first  meet- 
ing, was  all  Tom  had  to  go  upon,  while  those  eyes  that 
refused  to  shut  watched  ceaselessly  always.  There  was 
improvement,  unless,  which  never  occurred  to  Tom,  it  was 
self-control ;  there  was  no  more  talk  of  trees  and  water, 
the  barking  of  the  dogs  passed  unnoticed,  no  reference 
to  the  loneliness  of  the  backwoods  life  passed  his  lips; 
he  spent  his  days  fishing,  shooting,  helping  with  the 
work  of  the  farm,  his  evenings  smoking  over  a  glass — 
he  was  more  than  temperate — and  talking  over  the  days 
of  long4  ago. 

The  signs  of  uneasiness  still  were  there,  but  they  were 
negative,  far  more  suggestive,  therefore,  than  if  open 
and  direct.  He  desired  no  company,  for  instance — an 
unnatural  thing,  thought  Tom,  after  so  many  years  of 
loneliness. 

It  was  this  and  the  awkward  fact  that  he  had  given 
up  two  years  before  his  time  was  finished,  renouncing, 
therefore,  a  comfortable  pension — it  was  these  two  big 
details  that  stuck  with  such  unkind  persistence  in  his 
brother's  thoughts.  Behind  both,  moreover,  ran  ever  the 
strange  whispered  phrase.  What  the  words  meant,  or 
whence  they  were  derivted,  Tom  had  no  possible  inkling. 
Like  the  wicked  refrain  of  some  forbidden  song,  they 


12  The  Wolves  of  God 

haunted  him  day  and  night,  even  his  sleep  not  free  from 
them  entirely.  All  of  which,  to  the  simple  Orkney  farmer, 
was  so  new  an  experience  that  he  knew  not  how  to  deal 
with  it  at  all.  Too  strong  to  be  flustered,  he  was  at  any 
rate  bewildered.  And  it  was  for  Jim,  his  brother,  he 
suffered  most. 

What  perplexed  him  chiefly,  however,  was  the  atti- 
tude his  brother  showed  towards  old  John  Rossiter.  He 
could  almost  have  imagined  that  the  two  men  had  met 
and  known  each  other  out  in  Canada,  though  Rossiter 
showed  him  how  impossible  that  was,  both  in  point  of 
time  and  of  geography  as  well.  He  had  brought  them 
together  within  the  first  few  days,  and  Jim,  silent,  gloomy, 
morose,  even  surly,  had  eyed  him  like  an  enemy.  Old 
Rossiter,  the  milk  of  human  kindness  as  thick  in  his  veins 
as  cream,  had  taken  no  offence.  Grizzled  veteran  of  the 
wilds,  he  had  served  his  full  term  with  the  Company  and 
now  enjoyed  his  well-earned  pension.  He  was  full  of 
stories,  reminiscences,  adventures  of  every  sort  and  kind; 
he  knew  men  and  values,  had  seen  strange  things  that 
only  the  true  wilderness  delivers,  and  he  loved  nothing 
better  than  to  tell  them  over  a  glass.  He  talked  with  Jim 
so  genially  and  affably  that  little  response  was  called  for 
luckily,  for  Jim  was  glum  and  unresponsive  almost  to 
rudeness.  Old  Rossiter  noticed  nothing.  What  Tom 
noticed  was,  chiefly  perhaps,  his  brother's  acute  uneasi- 
ness. Between  his  desire  to  help,  his  attachment  to 
Rossiter,  and  his  keen  personal  distress,  he  knew  not  what 
to  do  or  say.  The  situation  was  becoming  too  much  for 
him. 

The  two  families,  besides — Peace  and  Rossiter — had 
been  neighbours  for  generations,  had  intermarried  freely, 
and  were  related  in  various  degrees.  He  was  too  fond  of 
his  brother  to  feel  ashamed,  but  he  was  glad  when  the 
visit  was  over  and  they  were  out  of  their  host's  house. 
Jim  had  even  declined  to  drink  with  him. 

"They're  good  fellows  on  the  island,"  said  Tom  on 


The  Wolves  of  God  13 

their  way  home,  "but  not  specially  entertaining-,  perhaps. 
We  all  stick  together  though.  You  can  trust  'em 
mostly." 

"I  never  was  a  talker,  Tom,"  came  the  gruff  reply. 
"You  know  that."  And  Tom,,  understanding  more  than 
he  understood,  accepted  the  apology  and  made  generous 
allowances. 

"John  likes  to  talk,"  he  helped  him.  "He  appreciates 
a  good  listener." 

"It's  the  kind  of  talk  I'm  finished  with,"  was  the 
rejoinder.  "The  Company  and  their  goings-on  don't  in- 
terest me  any  more.  I've  had  enough." 

Tom  noticed  other  things  as  well  with  those  affec- 
tionate eyes  of  his  that  did  not  want  to  see  yet  would  not 
close.  As  the  days  drew  in,  for  instance,  Jim  seemed 
reluctant  to  leave  the  house  towards  evening.  Once  the 
full  light  of  day  had  passed,  he  kept  indoors.  He  was 
eager  and  ready  enough  to  shoot  in  the  early  morning, 
no  matter  at  what  hour  he  had  to  get  up,  but  he  refused 
point  blank  to  go  with  his  brother  to  the  lake  for  an 
evening  flight.  No  excuse  was  offered;  he  simply 
declined  to  go. 

The  gap  between  them  thus  widened  and  deepened, 
while  yet  in  another  sense  it  grew  less  formidable.  Both 
knew,  that  is,  that  a  secret  lay  between  them  for  the 
first  time  in  their  lives,  yet  both  knew  also  that  at  the 
right  and  proper  moment  it  would  be  revealed.  Jim  only 
waited  till  the  proper  moment  came.  And  Tom  under- 
stood. His  deep,  simple  love  was  equal  to  all  emergen- 
cies. He  respected  his  brother's  reserve.  The  obvious 
desire  of  John  Rossiter  to  talk  and  ask  questions,  for 
instance,  he  resisted  staunchly  as  far  as  he  was  able. 
Only  when  he  could  help  and  protect  his  brother  did  he 
yield  a  little.  The  talk  was  brief,  even  monosyllabic; 
neither  the  old  Hudson  Bay  fellow  nor  the  Orkney  farmer 
ran  to  many  words  : 

"He  ain't  right  with  himself,"  offered  John,  taking 


i4  The  Wolves  of  God 

his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and  leaning  forward.  "That's 
what  I  don't  like  to  see."  He  put  a  skinny  hand  on  Tom's 
knee,  and  looked  earnestly  into  his  face  as  he  said  it. 

"Jim  !  "  replied  the  other.  "Jim  ill,  you  mean  !  "  It 
sounded  ridiculous. 

"His  mind  is  sick." 

"I  don't  understand,"  Tom  said,  though  the  truth  bit 
like  rough-edged  steel  into  the  brother's  heart. 

"His  soul,  then,  if  you  like  that  better." 

Tom  fought  with  himself  a  moment,  then  asked  him  to 
be  more  explicit. 

"More'n  I  can  say,"  rejoined  the  laconic  old  back- 
woodsman. "I  don't  know  myself.  The  woods  heal 
some  men  and  make  others  sick." 

"Maybe,  John,  maybe."  Tom  fought  back  his  resent- 
ment. "You've  lived,  like  him,  in  lonely  places.  You 
ought  to  know."  His  mouth  shut  with  a  snap,  as  though 
he  had  said  too  much.  Loyalty  to  his  suffering  brother 
caught  him  strongly.  Already  his  heart  ached  for  Jim. 
He  felt  angry  with  Rossiter  for  his  divination,  but  per- 
ceived, too,  that  the  old  fellow  meant  well  and  was  trying 
to  help  him.  If  he  lost  Jim,  he  lost  the  world — his  all. 

A  considerable  pause  followed,  during  which  both  men 
puffed  their  pipes  with  reckless  energy.  Both,  that  is, 
were  a  bit  excited.  Yet  both  had  their  code,  a  code  they 
would  not  exceed  for  worlds. 

"Jim,"  added  Tom  presently,  making  an  effort  to  meet 
the  sympathy  half  way,  "ain't  quite  up  to  the  mark,  I'll 
admit  that." 

There  was  another  long  pause,  while  Rossiter  kept  his 
eyes  on  his  companion  steadily,  though  without  a  trace  of 
expression  in  them — a  habit  that  the  woods  had  taught 
him. 

"Jim,"  he  said  at  length,  with  an  obvious  effort,  "is 
skeered.  And  it's  the  soul  in  him  that's  skeered." 

Tom  wavered  dreadfully  then.  He  saw  that  old  Ros- 
siter, experienced  backwoodsman  and  taught  by  the 


The  Wolves  of  God  15 

Company  as  he  was,  knew  where  the  secret  lay,  if  he  did 
not  yet  know  its  exact  terms.  It  was  easy  enough  to  put 
the  question,  yet  he  hesitated,  because  loyalty  forbade. 

"It's  a  dirty  outfit  somewheres,"  the  old  man  mumbled 
to  himself. 

Tom  sprang  to  his  feet.  "If  you  talk  that  way,"  he 
exclaimed  angrily,  "you're  no  friend  of  mine — or  his." 
His  anger  gained  upon  him  as  he  said  it.  "  Say  that 
again,"  he  cried,  "and  I'll  knock  your  teeth " 

He  sat  back,  stunned  a  moment. 

"Forgive  me,  John,"  he  faltered,  shamed  yet  still 
angry.  "It's  pain  to  me,  it's  pain.  Jim,"  he  went  on, 
after  a  long  breath  and  a  pull  at  his  glass,  "Jim  is  scared, 
I  know  it."  He  waited  a  moment,  hunting  for  the  words 
that  he  could  use  without  disloyalty.  "But  it's  nothing 
he's  done  himself,"  he  said,  "nothing  to  his  discredit.  I 
know  that." 

Old  Rossiter  looked  up,  a  strange  light  in  his  eyes. 

"No  offence,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Tell  me  what  you  know,"  cried  Tom  suddenly,  stand- 
ing up  again. 

The  old  factor  met  his  eye  squarely,  steadfastly.  He 
laid  his  pipe  aside. 

"D'ye  really  want  to  hear?  "  he  asked  in  a  lowered 
voice.  "Because,  if  you  don't — why,  say  so  right  now. 
I'm  all  for  justice,"  he  added,  "and  always  was." 

"Tell  me,"  said  Tom,  his  heart  in  his  mouth.  "Maybe, 
if  I  knew — I  might  help  him."  The  old  man's  words 
woke  fear  in  him.  He  well  knew  his  passionate,  remorse- 
less sense  of  justice. 

" Help  him,"  repeated  the  other.  "For  a  man  skeered 
in  his  soul  there  ain't  no  help.  But — if  you  want  to  hear 
—I'll  tell  you." 

"Tell  me,"  cried  Tim.  "I  will  help  him,"  while  rising 
anger  fought  back  rising  fear. 

John  took  another  pull  at  his  glass. 

"Jest  between  you  and  me  like." 


16  The  Wolves  of  God 

"Between  you  and  me,"  said  Tom.     "Get  on  with  it." 

There  was  a  deep  silence  in  the  little  room.  Only  the 
sound  of  the  sea  came  in,  the  wind  behind  it. 

"  The  Wolves,"  whispered  old  Rossiter.  "  The  Wolves 
of  God." 

Tom  sat  still  in  his  chair,  as  though  struck  in  the 
face.  He  shivered.  He  kept  silent  and  the  silence  seemed 
to  him  long  and  curious.  His  heart  was  throbbing,  the 
blood  in  his  veins  played  strange  tricks.  All  he  remem- 
bered was  that  old  Rossiter  had  gone  on  talking-.  The 
voice,  however,  sounded  far  away  and  distant.  It  was 
all  unreal,  he  felt,  as  he  went  homewards  across  the  bleak, 
wind-swept  upland,  the  sound  of  the  sea  for  ever  in  his 
ears.  .  .  . 

Yes,  old  John  Rossiter,  damned  be  his  soul,  had  gone 
on  talking.  He  had  said  wild,  incredible  things.  Damned 
be  his  soul !  His  teeth  should  be  smashed  for  that.  It 
was  outrageous,  it  was  cowardly,  it  was  not  true. 

"Jim,"  he  thought,  "my  brother,  Jim!"  as  he 
ploughed  his  way  wearily  against  the  wind.  "I'll  teach 
him.  I'll  teach  him  to  spread  such  wicked  tales!  "  He 
referred  to  Rossiter.  "God  blast  these  fellows!  They 
come  home  from  their  outlandish  places  and  think 
they  can  say  anything!  I'll  knock  his  yellow  dog's 
teeth  .  .  .  !  " 

While,  inside,  his  heart  went  quailing,  crying  for  help, 
afraid. 

He  tried  hard  to  remember  exactly  what  old  John  had 
said.  Round  Garden  Lake — that's  where  Jim  was  located 
in  his  lonely  Post — there  was  a  tribe  of  Redskins.  They 
were  of  unusual  type.  Malefactors  among  them — thieves, 
criminals,  murderers — were  not  punished.  They  were 
merely  turned  out  by  the  Tribe  to  die. 

But  how? 

The  Wolves  of  God  took  care  of  them.  What  were 
the  Wolves  of  God? 

A  pack  of  wolves  the  Redskins  held  in  awe,  a  sacred 


The  Wolves  of  God  17 

pack,  a  spirit  pack — God  curse  the  man  !  Absurd,  out- 
landish nonsense !  Superstitious  humbug !  A  pack  of 
wolves  that  punished  malefactors,  killing  but  never  eating 
them.  "Torn  but  not  eaten,"  the  words  came  back  to 
him,  "white  men  as  well  as  red.  They  could  even  cross 
the  sea.  ..." 

"  He  ought  to  be  strung  up  for  telling  such  wild  yarns. 
By  God— I'll  teach  him !  " 

"Jim!     My  brother,  Jim!     It's  monstrous!" 

But  the  old  man,  in  his  passionate  cold  justice,  had 
said  a  yet  more  terrible  thing,  a  thing  that  Tom  would 
never  forget,  as  he  never  could  forgive  it :  "You  mustn't 
keep  him  here ;  you  must  send  him  away.  We  cannot 
have  him  on  the  island."  And  for  that,  though  he  could 
scarcely  believe  his  ears,  wondering  afterwards  whether 
he  heard  aright,  for  that,  the  proper  answer  to  which  was 
a  blow  in  the  mouth,  Tom  knew  that  his  old  friendship 
and  affection  had  turned  to  bitter  hatred. 

"  If  I  don't  kill  him,  for  that  cursed  lie,  may  God — 
and  Jim — forgive  me  !  " 


It  was  a  few  days  later  that  the  storm  caught  the 
islands,  making  them  tremble  in  their  sea-born  bed.  The 
wind  tearing  over  the  treeless  expanse  was  terrible,  the 
lightning  lit  the  skies.  No  such  rain  had  ever  been 
known.  The  building  shook  and  trembled.  It  almost 
seemed  the  sea  had  burst  her  limits,  and  the  waves 
poured  in.  Its  fury  and  the  noises  that  the  wind  made 
affected  both  the  brothers,  but  Jim  disliked  the  uproar 
most.  It  made  him  gloomy,  silent,  morose.  It  made 
him — Tom  perceived  it  at  once — uneasy.  "  Scared  in 
his  soul  " — the  ugly  phrase  came  back  to  him. 

"God  save  anyone  who's  out  to-night,"  said  Jim 
anxiously,  as  the  old  farm  rattled  about  his  head.  Where- 


i8  The  Wolves  of  God 

upon  the  door  opened  as  of  itself.  There  was  no  knock. 
It  flew  wide,  as  if  the  wind  had  burst  it.  Two  drenched 
and  beaten  figures  showed  in  the  gap  against  the  lurid 
sky — old  John  Rossiter  and  Sandy.  They  laid  their  fowl- 
ing pieces  down  and  took  off  their  capes ;  they  had  been 
up  at  the  lake  for  the  evening  flight  and  six  birds  were  in 
the  game  bag.  So  suddenly  had  the  storm  come  up  that 
they  had  been  caught  before  they  could  get  home. 

And,  while  Tom  welcomed  them,  looked  after  their 
creature  wants,  and  made  them  feel  at  home  as  in  duty 
bound,  no  visit,  he  felt  at  the  same  time,  could  have  been 
less  opportune.  Sandy  did  not  matter — Sandy  never  did 
matter  anywhere,  his  personality  being  negligible — but 
John  Rossiter  was  the  last  man  Tom  wished  to  see  just 
then.  He  hated  the  man ;  hated  that  sense  of  implacable 
justice  that  he  knew  was  in  him ;  with  the  slightest  excuse 
he  would  have  turned  him  out  and  sent  him  on  to  his  own 
home,  storm  or  no  storm.  But  Rossiter  provided  no 
excuse;  he  was  all  gratitude  and  easy  politeness,  more 
pleasant  and  friendly  to  Jim  even  than  to  his  brother. 
Tom  set  out  the  whisky  and  sugar,  sliced  the  lemon,  put 
the  kettle  on,  and  furnished  dry  coats  while  the  soaked 
garments  hung  up  before  the  roaring  fire  that  Orkney 
makes  customary  even  when  days  are  warm. 

"It  might  be  the  equinoctials,"  observed  Sandy,  "if  it 
wasn't  late  October."  He  shivered,  for  the  tropics  had 
thinned  his  blood. 

"This  ain't  no  ordinary  storm,"  put  in  Rossiter,  drying 
his  drenched  boots.  "  It  reminds  me  a  bit " — he  jerked 
his  head  to  the  window  that  gave  seawards,  the  rush  of 
rain  against  the  panes  half  drowning  his  voice — "reminds 
me  a  bit  of  yonder."  He  looked  up,  as  though  to  find 
someone  to  agree  with  him,  only  one  such  person  being 
in  the  room. 

"Sure,  it  ain't,"  agreed  Jim  at  once,  but  speaking 
slowly,  "no  ordinary  storm."  His  voice  was  quiet  as  a 
child's.  Tom,  stooping  over  the  kettle,  felt  something 


The  Wolves  of  God  19 

cold  go  trickling  down  his  back.     "  It's  from  acrost  the 
Atlantic  too." 

"All  our  big  storms  come  from  the  sea,"  offered 
Sandy,  saying  just  what  Sandy  was  expected  to  say.  His 
lank  red  hair  lay  matted  on  his  forehead,  making  him  look 
like  an  unhappy  collie  dog. 

"There's  no  hospitality,"  Rossiter  changed  the  talk, 
"like  an  islander's,"  as  Tom  mixed  and  filled  the  glasses. 
"He  don't  even  ask  '  Say  when?  '  "  He  chuckled  in  his 
beard  and  turned  to  Sandy,  well  pleased  with  the  compli- 
ment to  his  host.  "Now,  in  Malay,"  he  added  dryly, 
"it's  probably  different,  I  guess."  And  the  two  men,  one 
from  Labrador,  the  other  from  the  tropics,  fell  to  banter- 
ing one  another  with  heavy  humour,  while  Tom  made 
things  comfortable  and  Jim  stood  silent  with  his  back  to 
the  fire.  At  each  blow  of  the  wind  that  shook  the  build- 
ing, a  suitable  remark  was  made,  generally  by  Sandy  : 
"Did  you  hear  that  now?"  "Ninety  miles  an  hour  at 
least  !  "  "  Good  thing  you  build  solid  in  this  country  !  " 
while  Rossiter  occasionally  repeated  that  it  was  an  "un- 
common storm"  and  that  "it  reminded"  him  of  the 
northern  tempests  he  had  known  "out  yonder." 

Tom  said  little,  one  thought  and  one  thought  only  in 
his  heart — the  wish  that  the  storm  would  abate  and  his 
guests  depart.  He  felt  uneasy  about  Jim.  He  hated 
Rossiter.  In  the  kitchen  he  had  steadied  himself  already 
with  a  good  stiff  drink,  and  was  now  half-way  through 
a  second ;  the  feeling  was  in  him  that  he  would  need  their 
help  before  the  evening  was  out.  Jim,  he  noticed,  had 
left  his  glass  untouched.  His  attention,  clearly,  went  to 
the  wind  and  the  outer  night;  he  added  little  to  the 
conversation. 

"Hark!"  cried  Sandy's  shrill  voice.  "Did  you  hear 
that?  That  wasn't  wind,  I'll  swear."  He  sat  up,  looking 
for  all  the  world  like  a  dog  pricking  its  ears  to  something 
no  one  else  could  hear. 

"The   sea   coming   over   the    dunes,"    said    Rossiter. 


20  The  Wolves  of  God 

"There'll  be  an  awful  tide  to-night  and  a  terrible  sea  off 
the  Swarf.  Moon  at  the  full,  too."  He  cocked  his  head 
sideways  to  listen.  The  roaring  was  tremendous,  waves 
and  wind  combining  with  a  result  that  almost  shook  the 
ground.  Rain  hit  the  glass  with  incessant  volleys  like 
duck  shot. 

It  was  then  that  Jim  spoke,  having  said  no  word  for 
a  long  time. 

"It's  good  there's  no  trees,"  he  mentioned  quietly. 
"I'm  glad  of  that." 

" There 'd  be  fearful  damage,  wouldn't  there?"  re- 
marked Sandy.  "They  might  fall  on  the  house  too." 

But  it  was  the  tone  Jim  used  that  made  Rossiter  turn 
stiffly  in  his  chair,  looking  first  at  the  speaker,  then  at 
his  brother.  Tom  caught  both  glances  and  saw  the  hard 
keen  glitter  in  the  eyes.  This  kind  of  talk,  he  decided, 
had  got  to  stop,  yet  how  to  stop  it  he  hardly  knew,  for 
his  were  not  subtle  methods,  and  rudeness  to  his  guests 
ran  too  strong  against  the  island  customs.  He  refilled 
the  glasses,  thinking  in  his  blunt  fashion  how  best  to 
achieve  his  object,  when  Sandy  helped  the  situation  with- 
out knowing  it. 

"That's  my  first,"  he  observed,  and  all  burst  out 
laughing.  For  Sandy's  tenth  glass  was  equally  his 
"first,"  and  he  absorbed  his  liquor  like  a  sponge,  yet 
showed  no  effects  of  it  until  the  moment  when  he  would 
suddenly  collapse  and  sink  helpless  to  the  ground.  The 
glass  in  question,  however,  was  only  his  third,  the  final 
moment  still  far  away. 

"Three  in  one  and  one  in  three,"  said  Rossiter,  amid 
the  general  laughter,  while  Sandy,  grave  as  a  judge,  half 
emptied  it  at  a  single  gulp.  Good-natured,  obtuse  as  a 
cart-horse,  the  tropics,  it  seemed,  had  first  worn  out  his 
nerves,  then  removed  them  entirely  from  his  body. 
"That's  Malay  theology,  I  guess,"  finished  Rossiter. 
And  the  laugh  broke  out  again.  Whereupon,  setting  his 
glass  down,  Sandy  offered  his  usual  explanation  that  the 


The  Wolves  of  God  21 

hot  lands  had  thinned  his  blood,  that  he  felt  the  cold  in 
these  "arctic  islands', "  and  that  alcohol  was  a  necessity 
of  life  with  him.  Tom,  grateful  for  the  unexpected  help, 
encouraged  him  to  talk,  and  Sandy,  accustomed  to  neglect 
as  a  rule,  responded  readily.  Having-  saved  the  situation, 
however,  he  now  unwittingly  led  it  back  into  the  danger 
zone. 

"A  night  for  tales,  eh?"  he  remarked,  as  the  wind 
came  howling  witrTa  burst  of  strangest  noises  against  the 
house.  "Down  there  in  the  States,"  'he  went  on,  "they'd 
say  the  evil  spirits  were  out.  They're  a  superstitious 

crowd,  the  natives.     I  remember  once "     And  he  told 

a  tale,  half  foolish,  half  interesting,  of  a  mysterious  track 
he  had  seen  when  following  buffalo  in  the  jungle.  It  ran 
close  to  the  spoor  of  a  wounded  buffalo"  for  miles,  a  track 
unlike  that  of  any  known  animal,  and  the  natives,  though 
unable  to  name  it,  regarded  it  with  awe.  It  was  a 
good  sign,  a  kill  was  certain.  They  said  it  was  a  spirit 
track. 

"You  got  your  buffalo?  "  asked  Tom. 

"Found  him  two  miles  away,  lying  dead.  The  mys- 
terious spoor  came  to  an  end  close  beside  the  carcass. 
It  didn't  continue." 

"And    that    reminds    me "    began    old    Rossiter, 

ignoring  Tom's  attempt  to  introduce  another  subject.  He 
told  them  of  the  haunted  island  at  Eagle  River,  and  a 
tale  of  the  man  who  would  not  stay  buried  on  another 
island  off  the  coast.  From  that  he  went  on  to  describe 
the  strange  man-beast  that  hides  in  the  deep  forests  of 
Labrador,  manifesting  but  rarely,  and  dangerous  to  men 
who  stray  too  far  from  camp,  men  with  a  passion  for  wild 
life  overstrong  in  their  blood — the  great  myftiical 
Wendigo.  And  while  he  talked,  Tom  noticed  that  Sandy 
used  each  pause  as  a  good  moment  for  a  drink,  but  that 
Jim's  glass  still  remained  untouched. 

The  atmosphere  of  incredible  things,  thus,  grew  in  the 
little  room,  much  as  it  gathers  among  the  shadows  round 


22  The  Wolves  of  God 

a  forest  camp-fire  when  men  who  have  seen  strange  places 
of  the  world  give  tongue  about  them,  knowing  they  will 
not  be  laughed  at — an  atmosphere,  once  established,  it  is 
vain  to  fight  against.  The  ingrained  superstition  that 
hides  in  every  mother's  son  comes  up  at  such  times  to 
breathe.  It  came  up  now.  Sandy,  closer  by  several  glasses 
to  the  moment,  Tom  saw,  when  he  would  be  suddenly 
drunk,  gave  birth  again,  a  tale  this  time  of  a  Scottish 
planter  who  had  brutally  dismissed  a  native  servant  for  no 
other  reason  than  that  he  disliked  him.  The  man  dis- 
appeared completely,  but  the  villagers  hinted  that  he 
would — soon  indeed  that  he  had — come  back,  though  "not 
quite  as  he  went."  The  planter  armed,  knowing  that 
vengeance  might  be  violent.  A  black  panther,  meanwhile, 
was  seen  prowling  about  the  bungalow.  One  night  & 
noise  outside  his  door  on  the  veranda  roused  him.  Just 
in  time  to  see  the  black  brute  leaping  over  the  railings 
into  the  compound,  he  fired,  and  the  beast  fell  with  a 
savage  growl  of  pain.  Help  arrived  and  more  shots  were 
fired  into  the  animal,  as  it  lay,  mortally  wounded  already, 
lashing  its  tail  upon  the  grass.  The  lanterns,  however, 
showed  that  instead  of  a  panther,  it  was  the  servant  they 
had  shot  to  shreds. 

Sandy  told  the  story  well,  a  certain  odd  conviction  in 
his  tone  and  manner,  neither  of  them  at  all  to  the  liking 
of  his  host.  Uneasiness  and  annoyance  had  been  growing 
in  Tom  for  some  time  already,  his  inability  to  control  the 
situation  adding  to  his  anger.  Emotion  was  accumulat- 
ing in  him  dangerously ;  it  was  directed  chiefly  against 
Rossiter,  who,  though  saying  nothing  definite,  somehow 
deliberately  encouraged  both  talk  and  atmosphere.  Given 
the  conditions,  it  was  natural  enough  the  talk  should  take 
the  turn  it  did  take,  but  what  made  Tom  more  and  more 
angry  was  that,  if  Rossiter  had  not  been  present,  he 
could  have  stopped  it  easily  enough.  It  was  the  presence 
of  the  old  Hudson  Bay  man  that  prevented  his  taking 
decided  action.  He  was  afraid  of  Rossiter,  afraid  of 


The  Wolves  of  God  23 

putting  his  back  up.  That  was  the  truth.  His  recogni- 
tion of  it  made  him  furious. 

"Tell  us  another,  Sandy  McKay,"  said  the  veteran. 
"There's  a  lot  in  such  tales.  They're  found  the  world 
over — men  turning  into  animals  and  the  like." 

And  Sandy,  yet  nearer  to  his  moment  of  collapse, 
but  still  showing  no  effects,  obeyed  willingly.  He  noticed 
nothing ;  the  whisky  was  good,  his  tales  were  appreciated, 
and  that  sufficed  him.  He  thanked  Tom,  who  just  then 
refilled  his  glass,  and  went  on  with  his  tale.  But  Tom, 
hatred  and  fury  in  his  heart,  had  reached  the  point  where 
he  could  no  longer  contain  himself,  and  Rossiter's  last 
words  inflamed  him.  He  went  over,  under  cover  of  a 
tremendous  clap  of  wind,  to  fill  the  old  man's  glass.  The 
latter  refused,  covering  the  tumbler  with  his  big,  lean 
hand.  Tom  stood  over  him  a  moment,  lowering  his  face. 
"You  keep  still,"  he  whispered  ferociously,  but  so  that 
no  one  else  heard  it.  He  glared  into  his  eyes  with  an 
intensity  that  held  danger,  and  Rossiter,  without  answer- 
ing, flung  back  that  glare  with  equal,  but  with  a  calmer, 
anger. 

The  wind,  meanwhile,  had  a  trick  of  veering,  and  each 
time  it  shifted,  Jim  shifted  his  seat  too.  Apparently,  he 
preferred  to  face  the  sound,  rather  than  have  his  back 
to  it. 

"Your  turn  now  for  a  tale,"  said  Rossiter  with  pur- 
pose, when  Sandy  finished.  He  looked  across  at  him, 
just  as  Jim,  hearing  the  burst  of  wind  at  the  walls  behind 
him,  was  in  the  act  of  moving  his  chair  again.  The  same 
moment  the  attack  rattled  the  door  and  windows  facing 
him.  Jim,  without  answering,  stood  for  a  moment  still 
as  death,  not  knowing  which  way  to  turn. 

"It's  beatin'  up  from  all  sides,"  remarked  Rossiter, 
"like  it  was  goin'  round  the  building." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  the  four  men  listening 
with  awe  to  the  roar  and  power  of  the  terrific  wind.  Tom 
listened  too,  but  at  the  same  time  watched,  wondering 


24  The  Wolves  of  God 

vaguely  why  he  didn't  cross  the  room  and  crash  his  fist 
into  the  old  man's  chattering"  mouth.  Jim  put  out  his 
hand  and  took  his  glass,  but  did  not  raise  it  to  his  lips. 
And  a  lull  came  abruptly  in  the  storm,  the  wind  sinking 
into*  a  moment's  dreadful  silence.  Tom  and  Rossiter 
turned  their  heads  in  the  same  instant  and  stared  into 
each  other's  eyes.  For  Tom  the  instant  seemed  enor- 
mously prolonged.  He  realized  the  challenge  in  the 
other  and  that  his  rudeness  had  roused  it  into  action. 
It  had  become  a  contest  of  wills — Justice  battling  against 
Love. 

Jim's  glass  had  now  reached  his  lips,  and  the  chatter- 
ing of  his  teeth  against  its  rim  was  audible. 

But  the  lull  passed  quickly  and  the  wind  began  again, 
though  so  gently  at  first,  it  had  the  sound  of  innumerable 
swift  footsteps  treading  lightly,  of  countless  hands  finger- 
ing the  doors  and  windows,  but  then  suddenly  with  a 
mighty  shout  as  it  swept  against  the  walls,  rushed  across 
the  roof  and  descended  like  a  battering-ram  against  the 
farther  side. 

"God,  did  you  hear  that?  "  cried  Sandy.  "It's  trying 
to  get  in  !  "  and  having  said  it,  he  sank  in  a  heap  beside 
his  chair,  all  of  a  sudden  completely  drunk.  "  It's  wolves 
or  panthersh,"  he  mumbled  in  his  stupor  on  the  floor, 
"but  whatsh's  happened  to  Malay?"  It  was  the  last 
thing  he  said  before  unconsciousness  took  him,  and  appa- 
rently he  was  insensible  to  the  kick  on  the  head  from  a 
heavy  farmer's  boot.  For  Jim's  glass  had  fallen  with  a 
crash  and  the  second  kick  was  stopped  midway.  Tom 
stood  spellbound,  unable  to  move  or  speak,  as  he  watched 
his  brother  suddenly  cross  the  room  and  open  a  window 
into  the  very  teeth  of  the  gale. 

"  Let  be  !  Let  be  ! "  came  the  voice  of  Rossiter,  an 
authority  in  it,  a  curious  gentleness  too,  both  of  them 
new.  He  had  risen,  his  lips  were  still  moving,  but  the 
words  that  issued  from  them  were  inaudible,  as  the  wind 
and  rain  leaped  with  a  galloping  violence  into  the  room, 


The  Wolves  of  God  25 

smashing-  the  glass  to  atoms  and  dashing  a  dozen  loose 
objects  helter-skelter  on  to  the  floor. 

"  I  saw  it !  "  cried  Jim,  in  a  voice  that  rose  above  the 
din  and  clamour  of  the  elements.  He  turned  and  faced 
the  others,  but  it  was  at  Rossiter  he  looked.  "I  saw  the 
leader."  He  shouted  to  make  himself  heard,  although  the 
tone  was  quiet.  "A  splash  of  white  on  his  great  chest. 
I  saw  them  all  ! " 

At  the  words,  and  at  the  expression  in  Jim's  eyes,  old 
Rossiter,  white  to  the  lips,  dropped  back  into  his  chair 
as  if  a  blow  had  struck  him.  Tom,  petrified,  felt  his  own 
heart  stop.  For  through  the  broken  window,  above  yet 
within  the  wind,  came  the  sound  of  a  wolf-pack  running, 
howling  in  deep,  full-throated  chorus,  mad  for  blood. 
It  passed  like  a  whirlwind  and  was  gone.  And,  of  the 
three  men  so  close  together,  one  sitting  and  two  standing, 
Jim  alone  was  in  that  terrible  moment  wholly  master  of 
himself. 

Before  the  others  could  move  or  speak,  he  turned  and 
looked  full  into  the  eyes  of  each  in  succession.  His  speech 
went  back  to  his  wilderness  days  : 

"I  done  it,"  he  said  calmly.  "I  killed  him— and  I 
got  ter  go." 

With  a  look  of  mystical  horror  on  his  face,  he  took 
one  stride,  flung  the  door  wide,  and  vanished  into  the 
darkness. 

So  quick  were  both  words  and  action,  that  Tom's 
paralysis  passed  only  as  the  draught  from  the  broken 
window  banged  the  door  behind  him.  He  seemed  to  leap 
across  the  room,  old  Rossiter,  tears  on  his  cheeks  and 
his  lips  mumbling  foolish  words,  so  close  upon  his  heels 
that  the  backward  blow  of  fury  Tom  aimed  at  his  face 
caught  him  only  in  the  neck  and  sent  him  reeling  sideways 
to  the  floor  instead  of  flat  upon  his  back. 

"Murderer!      My    brother's    death    upon    you!"    he 
shouted  as  he  tore  the  door  open  again  and  plunged  out 
into  the  night. 
C 


26  The  Wolves  of  God 

And  the  odd  thing-  that  happened  then,  the  thing  that 
touched  old  John  Rossiter's  reason,  leaving-  him  from  that 
moment  till  his  death  a  foolish  man  of  uncertain  mind 
and  memory,  happened  when  he  and  the  unconscious, 
drink-sodden  Sandy  lay  alone  together  on  the  stone  floor 
of  that  farm-house  room. 

Rossiter,  dazed  by  the  blow  and  his  fall,  but  in  full 
possession  of  his  senses,  and  the  anger  gone  out  of  him 
owing  to  what  he  had  brought  about,  this  same  John 
Rossiter  sat  up  and  saw  Sandy  also  sitting  up  and  staring1 
at  him  hard.  And  Sandy  was  sober  as  a  judge,  his  eyes 
and  speech  both  clear,  even  his  face  unflushed. 

"John  Rossiter,"  he  said,  "it  was  not  God  who 
appointed  you  executioner.  It  was  the  devil."  And  his 
eyes,  thought  Rossiter,  were  like  the  eyes  of  an  angel. 

"Sandy  McKay,"  he  stammered,  his  teeth  chattering 
and  breath  failing  him.  "Sandy  McKay!"  It  was  all 
the  words  that  he  could  find.  But  Sandy,  already  sunk 
back  into  his  stupor  again,  was  stretched  drunk  and 
incapable  upon  the  farm-house  floor,  and  remained  in  that 
condition  till  the  dawn. 

Jim's  body  lay  hidden  among  the  dunes  for  many 
months  and  in  spite  of  the  most  careful  and  prolonged 
searching.  It  was  another  storm  that  laid  it  bare.  The 
sand  had  covered  it.  The  clothes  were  gone,  and  the 
flesh,  torn  but  not  eaten,  was  naked  to  the  December  sun 
and  wind. 


II 

CHINESE    MAGIC 


DR.  OWEN  FRANCIS  felt  a  sudden  wave  of  pleasure  and 
admiration  sweep  over  him  as  he  saw  her  enter  the  room. 
He  was  in  the  act  of  going  out;  in  fact,  he  had  already 
said  good-bye  to  his  hostess,  glad  to  make  his  escape 
from  the  chattering  throng,  when  the  tall  and  graceful 
young  woman  glided  past  him.  Her  carriage  was  superb  ; 
she  had  black  eyes  with  a  twinkling  happiness  in  them; 
her  mouth  was  exquisite.  Round  her  neck,  in  spite  of 
the  warm  afternoon,  she  wore  a  soft  thing  of  fur  or 
feathers ;  and  as  she  brushed  by  to  shake  the  hand  he 
had  just  shaken  himself,  the  tail  of  this  touched  his  very 
cheek.  Their  eyes  met  fair  and  square.  He  felt  as 
though  her  eyes  also  touched  him. 

Changing  his  mind,  he  lingered  another  ten  minutes, 
chatting  with  various  ladies  he  did  not  in  the  least  re- 
member, but  who  remembered  him.  He  did  not,  of 
course,  desire  to  exchange  banalities  with  these  other 
ladies,  yet  did  so  gallantly  enough.  If  they  found  him 
absent-minded,  they  excused  him  since  he  was  the  famous 
mental  specialist  whom  everybody  was  proud  to  know. 
And  all  the  time  his  eyes  never  left  the  tall  graceful 
figure  that  allured  him  almost  to  the  point  of  casting  a 
spell  upon  him. 

His  first  impression  deepened  as  he  watched.  He  was 
aware  of  excitement,  curiosity,  longing;  there  was  a 
touch  even  of  exaltation  in  him;  yet  he  took  no  steps  to 

27 


28  The  Wolves  of  God 

seek  the  introduction  which  was  easily  enough  procur- 
able. He  checked  himself,  if  with  an  effort.  Several 
times  their  eyes  met  across  the  crowded  room ;  he  dared 
to  believe — he  felt  instinctively — that  his  interest  was  re- 
turned. Indeed,  it  was  more  than  instinct,  for  she  was 
certainly  aware  of  his  presence,  and  he  even  caught  her 
indicating-  him  to  a  woman  she  spoke  with,  and  evidently 
asking  who  he  was.  Once  he  half  bowed,  and  once,  in 
spite  of  himself,  he  went  so  far  as  to  smile,  and  there 
came,  he  was  sure,  a  faint,  delicious  brightening  of  the 
eyes  in  answer.  There  was,  he  fancied,  a  look  of  yearn- 
ing in  the  face.  The  young  woman  charmed  him  in- 
expressibly ;  the  very  way  she  moved  delighted  him.  Yet 
at  last  he  slipped  out  of  the  room  without  a  word,  without 
an  introduction,  without  even  knowing  her  name.  He 
chose  his  moment  when  her  back  was  turned.  It  was 
characteristic  of  him. 

For  Owen  Francis  had  ever  regarded  marriage,  for 
himself  at  least,  as  a  disaster  that  could  be  avoided.  He 
was  in  love  with  his  work,  and  his  work  was  necessary  to 
humanity.  Others  might  perpetuate  the  race,  but  he  must 
heal  it.  He  had  come  to  regard  love  as  the  bait  where- 
with Nature  lays  her  trap  to  fulfil  her  own  ends.  A  man 
in  love  was  a  man  enjoying  a  delusion,  a  deluded  man. 
In  his  case,  and  he  was  nearing  forty-five,  the  theory  had 
worked  admirably,  and  the  dangerous  exception  that 
proved  it  had  as  yet  not  troubled  him. 

"It's  come  at  last — I  do  believe,"  he  thought  to  him- 
self, as  he  walked  home,  a  new  tumultuous  emotion  in 
his  blood;  "the  exception,  quite  possibly,  has  come  at 
last.  I  wonder  ..." 

And  it  seemed  he  said  it  to  the  tall  graceful  figure  by 
his  side,  who  turned  up  dark  eyes  smilingly  to  meet  his 
own,  and  whose  lips  repeated  softly  his  last  two  words 
"I  wonder  ..." 

The  experience,  being  new  to  him,  was  baffling.  A 
part  of  his  nature,  Icng  dormant,  received  the  authentic 


Chinese  Magic  29 

thrill  that  pertains  actually  to  youth.  He  was  a  man  of 
chaste,  abstemious  custom.  The  reaction  was  vehement. 
That  dormant  part  of  him  became  obstreperous.  He 
thought  of  his  age,  his  appearance,  his  prospects;  he 
looked  thirty-eight,  he  was  not  unhandsome,  his  position 
was  secure,  even  remarkable.  That  gorgeous  young 
woman — he  called  her  gorgeous — haunted  him.  Never 
could  he  forget  that  face,  those  eyes.  It  was  extra- 
ordinary— he  had  left  her  there  unspoken  to,  unknown, 
when  an  introduction  would  have  been  the  simplest  thing 
in  the  world. 

"But  it  still  is,"  he  reflected.  And  the  reflection  filled 
his  being  with  a  flood  of  joy. 

He  checked  himself  again.  Not  so  easily  is  estab- 
lished habit  routed.  He  felt  instinctively  that,  at  last, 
he  had  met  his  mate;  if  he  followed  it  up  he  was  a  man 
in  love,  a  lost  man  enjoying  a  delusion,  a  deluded  man. 
But  the  way  she  had  looked  at  him  !  That  air  of  in- 
tuitive invitation  which  not  even  the  sweetest  modesty 
coifld  conceal !  He  felt  an  immense  confidence  in  himself ; 
also  he  felt  oddly  sure  of  her. 

The  presence  of  that  following  figure,  already  pre- 
cious, came  with  him  into  his  house,  even  into  his  study 
at  the  back  where  he  sat  over  a  number  of  letters  by  the 
open  window.  The  pathetic  little  London  garden  showed 
its  pitiful  patch.  The  lilac  had  faded,  but  a  smell  of 
roses  entered.  The  sun  was  just  behind  the  buildings 
opposite,  and  the  garden  lay  soft  and  warm  in  summer 
shadows. 

He  read  and  tossed  aside  the  letters ;  one  only  inter- 
ested him,  from  Edward  Farque,  whose  journey  to  China 
had  interrupted  a  friendship  of  long  standing.  Edward 
Farque 's  work  on  eastern  art  and  philosophy,  on  Chinese 
painting  and  Chinese  thought  in  particular,  had  made 
its  mark.  He  was  an  authority.  He  was  to  be  back 
about  this  time,  and  his  friend  smiled  with  pleasure. 
"Dear  old  unpractical  dreamer,"  as  I  used  to  call  him, 


30  The  Wolves  of  God 

he  mused.  "  He's  a  success,  anyhow  ! "  And  as  he 
mused,  the  presence  that  sat  beside  him  came  a  little 
closer,  yet  at  the  same  time  faded.  Not  that  he  forgot 
her — that  was  impossible — but  that  just  before  opening 
the  letter  from  his  friend,  he  had  come  to  a  decision. 
He  had  definitely  made  up  his  mind  to  seek  acquaintance. 
The  reality  replaced  the  remembered  substitute. 

"As  the  newspapers  may  have  warned  you,"  ran  the 
familiar  and  kinky  writing,  "  I  am  back  in  England  after 
what  the  scribes  term  my  ten  years  of  exile  in  Cathay. 
I  have  taken  a  little  house  in  Hampstead  for  six  months, 
and  am  just  settling  in.  Come  to  us  to-morrow  night  and 
let  me  prove  it  to  you.  Come  to  dinner.  We  shall  have 
much  to  say ;  we  both  are  ten  years  wiser.  You  know 
how  glad  I  shall  be  to  see  my  old-time  critic  and  dis- 
parager, but  let  me  add  frankly  that  I  want  to  ask  you 
a  few  professional,  or,  rather,  technical,  questions.  So 
prepare  yourself  to  come  as  doctor  and  as  friend.  I  am 
writing,  as  the  papers  said  truthfully,  a  treatise  on  Chinese 
thought.  But — don't  shy  ! — it  is  about  Chinese  Magic 
that  I  want  your  technical  advice  [the  last  two  words  were 
substituted  for  "professional  wisdom,"  which  had  been 
crossed  out]  and  the  benefit  of  your  vast  experience.  So 
come,  old  friend,  come  quickly,  and  come  hungry  !  I'll 
feed  your  body  as  you  shall  feed  my  mind. — Yours, 

"EDWARD  FARQUE." 

"P.S. — 'The  coming  of  a  friend  from  a  far-off  land 
— is  not  this  true  joy?'" 

Dr.  Francis  laid  down  the  letter  with  a  pleased  antici- 
patory chuckle,  and  it  was  the  touch  in  the  final  sentence 
that  amused  him.  In  spite  of  being  an  authority,  Farque 
was  clearly  the  same  fanciful,  poetic  dreamer  as  of  old. 
He  quoted  Confucius  as  in  other  days.  The  firm  but 
kinky  writing  had  not  altered  either.  The  only  sign  of 
novelty  he  noticed  was  the  use  of  scented  paper,  for  a 


Chinese  Magic  31 


faint    and    pungent    aroma    clung*    to    the    big    quarto 
sheet. 

"A  Chinese  habit,  doubtless,"  he  decided,  sniffing  it 
with  a  puzzled  air  of  disapproval.  Yet  it  had  nothing  in 
common  with  the  scented  sachets  some  ladies  use  too 
lavishly,  so  that  even  the  air  of  the  street  is  polluted  by 
their  passing  for  a  dozen  yards.  He  was  familiar  with 
every  kind  of  perfumed  note-paper  used  in  London,  Paris, 
and  Constantinople.  This  one  was  different.  It  was 
delicate  and  penetrating  for  all  its  faintness,  pleasurable 
too.  He  rather  liked  it,  and  while  annoyed  that  he  could 
not  name  it,  he  sniffed  at  the  letter  several  times,  as 
though  it  were  a  flower. 

"I'll  go,"  he  decided  at  once,  and  wrote  an  acceptance 
then  and  there.  He  went  out  and  posted  it.  He  meant 
to  prolong  his  walk  into  the  Park,  taking  his  chief  pre- 
occupation, the  face,  the  eyes,  the  figure,  with  him. 
Already  he  was  composing  the  note  of  inquiry  to  Mrs. 
Malleson,  his  hostess  of  the  tea-party,  the  note  whose 
willing  answer  should  give  him  the  name,  the  address, 
the  means  of  introduction  he  had  now  determined  to 
secure.  He  visualized  that  note  of  inquiry,  seeing  it  in 
his  mind's  eye ;  only,  for  some  odd  reason,  he  saw  the 
kinky  writing  of  Farque  instead  of  his  own  more  elegant 
script.  Association  of  ideas  and  emotions  readily  ex- 
plained this.  Two  new  and  unexpected  interests  had 
entered  his  life  on  the  same  day,  and  within  half  an  hour 
of  each  other.  What  he  could  not  so  readily  explain, 
however,  was  that  two  words  in  his  friend's  ridiculous 
letter,  and  in  that  kinky  writing,  stood  out  sharply  from 
the  rest.  As  he  slipped  his  envelope  into  the  mouth  of 
the  red  pillar-box  they  shone  vividly  in  his  mind.  These 
two  words  were  "Chinese  Magic." 


32  The  Wolves  of  God 


It  was  the  warmth  of  his  friend's  invitation  as  much 
as  his  own  state  of  inward  excitement  that  decided  him 
suddenly  to  anticipate  his  visit  by  twenty-four  hours.  It 
would  clear  his  judgment  and  help  his  mind,  if  he  spent 
the  evening  at  Hampstead  rather  than  alone  with  his  own 
thoughts.  "A  dose  of  China,"  he  thought,  with  a  smile, 
"will  do  me  good.  Edward  won't  mind.  I'll  telephone." 

He  left  the  Park  soon  after  six  o'clock  and  acted  upon 
his  impulse.  The  connexion  was  bad,  the  wire  buzzed 
and  popped  and  crackled ;  talk  was  difficult ;  he  did  not 
hear  properly.  The  Professor  had  not  yet  come  in, 
apparently.  Francis  said  he  would  come  up  anyhow  on 
the  chance. 

"Velly  pleased,"  said  the  voice  in  his  ear,  as  he  rang 
off. 

Going  into  his  study,  he  drafted  the  note  that  should 
result  in  the  introduction  that  was  now,  it  appeared,  the 
chief  object  of  his  life.  The  way  this  woman  with  the 
black,  twinkling  eyes  obsessed  him  was — he  admitted  it 
with  joy — extraordinary.  The  draft  he  put  in  his  pocket, 
intending  to  re-write  it  next  morning,  and  all  the  way  up 
to  Hampstead  Heath  the  gracious  figure  glided  silently 
beside  him,  the  eyes  were  ever  present,  his  cheek  still 
glowed  where  the  feather  boa  had  touched  his  skin. 
Edward  Farque  remained  in  the  background.  In  fact,  it 
was  on  the  very  door-step,  having  rung  the  bell,  that 
Francis  realized  he  must  pull  himself  together.  "I've 
come  to  see  old  Farque,"  he  reminded  himself,  with  a 
smile.  "I've  got  to  be  interested  in  him  and  his,  and, 

probably,  for  an  hour  or  two,  to  talk  Chinese "  when 

the  door  opened  noiselessly,  and  he  saw  facing  him,  with 
a  grin  of  celestial  welcome  on  his  yellow  face,  a  China- 
man. 


Chinese  Magic  33 

"Oh  !  "  he  said,  with  a  start.  He  had  not  expected  a 
Chinese  servant. 

"Velly  pleased,"  the  man  bowed  him  in. 

Dr.  Francis  stared  round  him  with  astonishment  he 
could  not  conceal.  A  great  golden  idol  faced  him  in  the 
hall,  its  gleaming  visage  blazing  out  of  a  sort  of  miniature 
golden  palanquin,  with  a  grin,  half  dignified,  half  cruel. 
Fully  double  human  size,  it  blocked  the  way,  looking  so 
life-like  that  it  might  have  moved  to  meet  him  without  too 
great  a  shock  to  what  seemed  possible.  It  rested  on  a 
throne  with  four  massive  legs,  carved,  the  doctor  saw, 
with  serpents,  dragons,  and  mythical  monsters  generally. 
Round  it  on  every  side  were  other  things  in  keeping. 
Name  them  he  could  not,  describe  them  he  did  not  try. 
He  summed  them  up  in  one  word — China :  pictures, 
weapons,  cloths  and  tapestries,  bells,  gongs  and  figures 
of  every  sort  and  kind  imaginable. 

Being  ignorant  of  Chinese  matters,  Dr.  Francis  stood 
and  looked  about  him  in  a  mental  state  of  some  con- 
fusion. He  had  the  feeling  that  he  had  entered  a  Chinese 
temple,  for  there  was  a  faint  smell  of  incense  hanging 
about  the  house  that  was,  to  say  the  least,  un-English. 
Nothing  English,  in  fact,  was  visible  at  all.  The  matting 
on  the  floor,  the  swinging  curtains  of  bamboo  beads  that 
replaced  the  customary  doors,  the  silk  draperies  and 
pictured  cushions,  the  bronze  and  ivory,  the  screens  hung 
with  fantastic  embroideries,  everything  was  Chinese. 
Hampstead  vanished  from  his  thoughts.  The  very  lamps 
were  in  keeping,  the  ancient  lacquered  furniture  as  well. 
The  value  of  what  he  saw,  an  expert  could  have  told  him, 
was  considerable. 

"You  likee?  "  queried  the  voice  at  his  side. 

He  had  forgotten  the  servant.     He  turned  sharply. 

"Very  much  ;  it's  wonderfully  done,"  he  said.  "Makes 
you  feel  at  home,  John,  eh?"  he  added  tactfully,  with  a 
smile,  and  was  going  to  ask  how  long  all  this  preparation 
had  taken,  when  a  voice  sounded  on  the  stairs  beyond. 


34  The  Wolves  of  God 

It  was  a  voice  he  knew,  a  note  of  hearty  welcome  in  its 
deep  notes. 

"The  coming-  of  a  friend  from  a  far-off  land,  even 
from  Harley  Street — is  not  this  true  joy?  "  he  heard,  and 
the  next  minute  was  shaking  the  hand  of  his  old  and 
valued  friend.  The  intimacy  between  them  had  always 
been  of  the  truest. 

"I  almost  expected  a  pigtail,"  observed  Francis, 
looking  him  affectionately  up  and  down,  "but,  really — 
why,  you've  hardly  changed  at  all  !  " 

"Outwardly,  not  as  much,  perhaps,  as  Time  expects," 

was  the  happy  reply,  "but  inwardly !  "  He  scanned 

appreciatively  the  burly  figure  of  the  doctor  in  his  turn. 
"And  I  can  say  the  same  of  you,"  he  declared,  still  hold- 
ing his  hand  tight.  "This  is  a  real  pleasure,  Owen,"  he 
went  on  in  his  deep  voice,  "to  see  you  again  is  a  joy 
to  me.  Old  friends  meeting  again — there's  nothing  like 
it  in  life,  I  believe,  nothing."  He  gave  the  hand  another 
squeeze  before  he  let  it  go.  "And  we,"  he  added,  leading 
the  way  into  a  room  across  the  hall,  "neither  of  us  is 
a  fugitive  from  life.  We  take  what  we  can,  I  mean." 

The  doctor  smiled  as  he  noted  the  un-English  turn  of 
language,  and  together  they  entered  a  sitting-room  that 
was,  again,  more  like  some  inner  chamber  of  a  Chinese 
temple  than  a  back  room  in  a  rented  Hampstead  house. 

"I  only  knew  ten  minutes  ago  that  you  were  coming, 
my  dear  fellow,"  the  scholar  was  saying,  as  his  friend 
gazed  round  him  with  increased  astonishment,  "or  I  would 
have  prepared  more  suitably  for  your  reception.  I  was  out 
till  late.  All  this  " — he  waved  his  hand — "  surprises  you, 
of  course,  but  the  fact  is  I  have  been  home  some  days 
"already,  and  most  of  what  you  see  was  arranged  for  me 
in  advance  of  my  arrival.  Hence  its  apparent  completion. 
I  say  'apparent,'  because,  actually,  it  is  far  from  faith- 
fully carried  out.  Yet  to  exceed,"  he  added,  "is  as  bad 
as  to  fall  short." 

The  doctor  watched  him  while  he  listened  to  a  some- 


Chinese  Magic  35 

what  lengthy  explanation  of  the  various  articles  surround- 
ing1 them.  The  speaker — he  confirmed  his  first  impression 
— had  changed  little  during  the  long  interval ;  the  same 
enthusiasm  was  in  him  as  before,  the  same  fire  and 
dreaminess  alternately  in  the  fine  grey  eyes,  the  same 
humour  and  passion  about  the  mouth,  the  same  free 
gestures,  and  the  same  big  voice.  Only  the  lines  had 
deepened  on  the  forehead,  and  on  the  fine  face  the  air 
of  thoughtfulness  was  also  deeper.  It  was  Edward 
Farque  as  of  old,  scholar,  poet,  dreamer  and  enthusiast, 
despiser  of  western  civilization,  contemptuous  of  money, 
generous  and  upright,  a  type  of  value,  an  individual. 

"You've  done  well,  done  splendidly,  Edward,  old 
man,"  said  his  friend  presently,  after  hearing  of  Chinese 
wonders  that  took  him  somewhat  beyond  his  depth 
perhaps.  "No  one  is  more  pleased  than  I.  I've  watched 
your  books.  You  haven't  regretted  England,  I'll  be 
bound?  "  he  asked. 

"The  philosopher  has  no  country,  in  any  case,"  was 
the  reply,  steadily  given.  "But  out  there,  I  confess  I've 
found  my  home."  He  leaned  forward,  a  deeper  earnest- 
ness in  his  tone  and  expression.  And  into  his  face,  as 
he  spoke,  came  a  glow  of  happiness.  "My  heart,"  he 
said,  softly,  "is  in  China." 

"I  see  it  is,  I  see  it  is,"  put  in  the  other,  conscious 
that  he  could  not  honestly  share  his  friend's  enthusiasm. 
"And  you're  fortunate  to  be  free  to  live  where  your 
treasure  is,"  he  added  after  a  moment's  pause.  "You 
must  be  a  happy  man.  Your  passion  amounts  to  nostalgia, 
I  suspect.  Already  yearning  to  get  back  there,  probably  ?  " 

Farque  gazed  at  him  for  some  seconds  with  shining 
eyes.  "You  remember  the  Persian  saying,  I'm  sure,"  he 
said.  " '  You  see  a  man  drink,  but  you  do  not  see  his 
thirst.'  Well,"  he  added,  laughing  happily,  "you  may 
see  me  off  in  six  months'  time,  but  you  will  not  see  my 
happiness." 

While  he  went  on  talking,  the  doctor  glanced  round 


36  The  Wolves  of  God 

the  room,  marvelling1  still  at  the  exquisite  taste  of  every- 
thing, the  neat  arrangement,  the  perfect  matching  of  form 
and  colour.  A  woman  might  have  done  this  thing, 
occurred  to  him,  as  the  haunting  figure  shifted  deliciously 
into  the  foreground  of  his  mind  again.  The  thought  of 
her  had  been  momentarily  replaced  by  all  he  heard  and 
saw.  She  now  returned,  filling  him  with  joy,  anticipation 
and  enthusiasm.  Presently,  when  it  was  his  turn  to  talk, 
he  would  tell  his  friend  about  this  new,  unimagined 
happiness  that  had  burst  upon  him  like  a  sunrise.  Pre- 
sently, but  not  just  yet.  He  remembered,  too,  with  a 
passing  twinge  of  possible  boredom  to  come,  that  there 
must  be  some  delay  before  his  own  heart  could  unburden 
itself  in  its  turn.  Farque  wanted  to  ask  some  professional 
questions,  of  course.  He  had  for  the  moment  forgotten 
that  part  of  the  letter  in  his  general  interest  and 
astonishment. 

"Happiness,  yes  .  .  ."he  murmured,  aware  that  his 
thoughts  had  wandered,  and  catching  at  the  last  word  he 
remembered  hearing.  "As  you  said  just  now  in  your  own 
queer  way — you  haven't  changed  a  bit,  let  me  tell  you, 
in  your  picturesqueness  of  quotation,  Edward  ! — one  must 
not  be  fugitive  from  life ;  one  must  seize  happiness  when 
and  where  it  offers." 

He  said  it  lightly  enough,  hugging  internally  his  own 
sweet  secret ;  but  he  was  a  little  surprised  at  the  earnest- 
ness of  his  friend's  rejoinder:  "Both  of  us,  I  see,"  came 
the  deep  voice,  backed  by  the  flash  of  the  far-seeing  grey 
eyes,  "have  made  some  progress  in  the  doctrine  of  life 
and  death."  He  paused,  gazing  at  the  other  with  sight 
that  was  obviously  turned  inwards  upon  his  own  thoughts. 
"Beauty,"  he  went  on  presently,  his  tone  even  more 
serious,  "has  been  my  lure;  yours,  Reality.  ..." 

"You  don't  flatter  either  of  us,  Edward.  That's  too 
exclusive  a  statement,"  put  in  the  doctor.  He  was 
becoming  every  minute  more  and  more  interested  in  the 
workings  of  his  friend's  mind.  Something  about  the 


Chinese  Magic  37 

signs  offered  eluded  his  understanding1.  "Explain  your- 
self, old  scholar-poet.  I'm  a  dull,  practical  mind, 
remember,  and  can't  keep  pace  with  Chinese  subtleties." 

"  You've  left  out  Beauty,"  was  the  quiet  rejoinder, 
"while  /  left  out  Reality.  That's  neither  Chinese  nor 
subtle.  It's  simply  true." 

"A  bit  wholesale,  isn't  it?"  laughed  Francis.  "A 
big  generalization,  rather." 

A  bright  light  seemed  to  illuminate  the  scholar's  face. 
It  was  as  though  an  inner  lamp  was  suddenly  lit.  At  the 
same  moment  the  sound  of  a  soft  gong  floated  in  from 
the  hall  outside,  so  soft  that  the  actual  strokes  were  not 
distinguishable  in  the  wave  of  musical  vibration  that 
reached  the  ear. 

Farque  rose  to  lead  the  way  in  to  dinner. 

"What  if  I "  he  whispered,  "have  combined  the 

two?  "  And  upon  his  face  was  a  look  of  joy  that  reached 
down  into  the  other's  own  full  heart  with  its  unexpected- 
ness and  wonder.  It  was  the  last  remark  in  the  world 
he  had  looked  for.  He  wondered  for  a  moment  whether 
he  interpreted  it  correctly. 

"By  Jove  ...  !"  he  exclaimed.  "Edward,  what 
d'you  mean?  " 

"You  shall  hear — after  dinner,"  said  Farque,  his  voice 
mysterious,  his  eyes  still  shining  with  his  inner  joy.  "  I 
told  you  I  have  some  questions  to  ask  you — pro- 
fessionally." And  they  took  their  seats  round  an  ancient, 
marvellous  table,  lit  by  two  swinging  lamps  of  soft  green 
jade,  while  the  Chinese  servant  waited  on  them  with  the 
silent  movements  and  deft  neatness  of  his  imperturbable 
celestial  race. 


To  say  that  he  was  bored  during  the  meal  were  an 
aver-statement  of  Dr.  Francis's  mental  condition,  but  to 


38  The  Wolves  of  God 

say  that  he  was  half-bored  seemed  the  literal  truth;  for 
one  half  of  him,  while  he  ate  his  steak  and  savoury  and 
watched  Farque  manipulating  chou  chop  suey  and  chou 
om  dong  most  cleverly  with  chop-sticks,  was  too  pre- 
occupied with  his  own  new  romance  to  allow  the  other 
half  to  give  its  full  attention  to  the  conversation. 

He  had  entered  the  room,  however,  with  a  distinct 
quickening  of  what  may  be  termed  his  instinctive  and 
infallible  sense  of  diagnosis.  That  last  remark  of  his 
friend's  had  stimulated  him.  He  was  aware  of  surprise, 
curiosity,  and  impatience.  Willy-nilly,  he  began  auto- 
matically to  study  him  with  a  profounder  interest.  Some- 
thing, he  gathered,  was  not  quite  as  it  should  be  in 
Edward  Farque 's  mental  composition.  There  was  what 
might  be  called  an  elusive  emotional  disturbance.  He 
began  to  wonder  and  to  watch. 

They  talked,  naturally,  of  China  and  of  things  Chinese, 
for  the  scholar  responded  to  little  else,  and  Francis  listened 
with  what  sympathy  and  patience  he  could  muster.  Of  art 
and  beauty  he  had  hitherto  known  little,  his  mind  was 
practical  and  utilitarian.  He  now  learned  that  all  art  was 
derived  from  China,  where  a  high,  fine,  subtle  culture  had 
reigned  since  time  immemorial.  Older  than  Egypt  was 
their  wisdom.  When  the  western  races  were  eating  one 
another,  before  Greece  was  even  heard  of,  the  Chinese  had 
reached  a  level  of  knowledge  and  achievement  that  few 
realized.  Never  had  they,  even  in  earliest  times,  been 
deluded  by  anthropomorphic  conceptions  of  the  Deity, 
but  perceived  in  everything  the  expressions  of  a  single 
whole  whose  giant  activities  they  reverently  worshipped. 
Their  contempt  for  the  western  scurry  after  knowledge, 
wealth,  machinery,  was  justified,  if  Farque  was  worthy  of 
belief.  He  seemed  saturated  .with  Chinese  thought,  art, 
philosophy,  and  his  natural  bias  towards  the  celestial  race 
had  hardened  into  an  attitude  to  life  that  had  now  become 
ineradicable. 

"They  deal,   as  it  were,   in  essences,"   he  declared; 


Chinese  Magic  39 

"they  discern  the  essence  of  everything-,  leaving  out  the 
superfluous,  the  unessential,  the  trivial.  Their  pictures 
alone  prove  it.  Come  with  me,"  he  concluded,  "and  see 
the  '  Earthly  Paradise,'  now  in  the  British  Museum.  It 
is  like  Botticelli,  but  better  than  anything  Botticelli  ever 
did.  It  was  painted" — he  paused  for  emphasis — "600 
years  B.C." 

The  wonder  of  this  quiet,  ancient  civilization,  a  sense 
of  its  depth,  its  wisdom,  grew  upon  his  listener  as  the 
enthusiastic  poet  described  its  charm  and  influence  upon 
himself.  He  willingly  allowed  the  enchantment  of  the 
other's  Paradise  to  steal  upon  his  own  awakened  heart. 
There  was  a  good  deal  Francis  might  have  offered  by  way 
of  criticism  and  objection,  but  he  preferred  on  the  whole 
to  keep  his  own  views  to  himself,  and  to  let  his  friend 
wander  unhindered  through  the  mazes  of  his  passionate 
evocation.  All  men,  he  well  know,  needed  a  dream  to 
carry  them  through  life's  disappointments,  a  dream  that 
they  could  enter  at  will  and  find  peace,  contentment, 
happiness.  Farque's  dream  was  China.  Why  not?  It 
was  as  good  as  another,  and  a  man  like  Farque  was 
entitled  to  what  dream  he  pleased. 

"And  their  women?  "  he  inquired  at  last,  letting  both 
halves  of  his  mind  speak  together  for  the  first  time. 

But  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  expression  that 
leaped  upon  his  friend's  face  at  the  simple  question.  Nor 
for  his  method  of  reply.  It  was  no  reply,  in  point  of  fact. 
It  was  simply  an  attack  upon  all  other  types  of  woman, 
and  upon  the  white,  the  English,  in  particular — their 
emptiness,  their  triviality,  their  want  of  intuitive  imagina- 
tion, of  spiritual  grace,  of  everything,  in  a  word,  that 
should  constitute  woman  a  meet  companion  for  man,  and 
a  little  higher  than  the  angels  into  the  bargain.  The 
doctor  listened  spellbound.  Too  humorous  to  be  shocked, 
he  was,  at  any  rate,  disturbed  by  what  he  heard,  dis- 
pleased a  little,  too.  It  threatened  too  directly  his  own 
new  tender  dream. 


40  The  Wolves  of  God 

Only  with  the  utmost  self-restraint  did  he  keep  his 
temper  under,  and  prevent  hot  words  he  would  have  re- 
gretted later  from  tearing  his  friend's  absurd  claim  into 
ragged  shreds.  He  was  wounded  personally  as  well. 
Never  now  could  he  bring  himself  to  tell  his  own  secret 
to  him.  The  outburst  chilled  and  disappointed  him.  But 
it  had  another  effect — it  cooled  his  judgment.  His  sense 
of  diagnosis  quickened.  He  divined  an  idee  fixe,  a  mania 
possibly.  His  interest  deepened  abruptly.  He  watched. 
He  began  to  look  about  him  with  more  wary  eyes,  and  a 
sense  of  uneasiness,  once  the  anger  passed,  stirred  in  his 
friendly  and  affectionate  heart. 

They  had  been  sitting  alone  over  their  port  for  some 
considerable  time,  the  servant  having  long  since  left  the 
room.  The  doctor  had  sought  to  change  the  subject 
many  times  without  much  success,  when  suddenly  Farque 
changed  it  for  him. 

"Now,"  he  announced,  "I'll  tell  you  something,"  and 
Francis  guessed  that  the  professional  questions  were  on 
the  way  at  last.  "We  must  pity  the  living,  remember, 
and  part  with  the  dead.  Have  you  forgotten  old  Shan- 
Yu?" 

The  forgotten  name  came  back  to  him,  the  picturesque 
East  End  dealer  of  many  years  ago.  "The  old  merchant 
who  taught  you  your  first  Chinese?  I  do  recall  him 
dimly,  now  you  mention  it.  You  made  quite  a  friend 
of  him,  didn't  you?  He  thought  very  highly  of  you — 
ah,  it  comes  back  to  me  now — he  offered  something  or 
other  very  wonderful  in  his  gratitude,  unless  my  memory 
fails  me?  " 

"  His  most  valuable  possession,"  Farque  went  on,  a 
strange  look  deepening  on  his  face,  an  expression  of 
mysterious  rapture,  as  it  were,  and  one  that  Francis 
recognized  and  swiftly  pigeon-holed  iin  his  now  atten- 
tive mind. 

"Which  was?  "  he  asked  sympathetically.  "You  told 
me  once,  but  so  long  ago  that  really  it's  slipped  my  mind. 


Chinese  Magic  41 

Something1  magical,  wasn't  it?  "  He  watched  closely  for 
his  friend's  reply. 

Farque  lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper  almost 
devotional  : 

"The  Perfume  of  the  Garden  of  Happiness,"  he  mur- 
mured, with  an  expression  in  his  eyes  as  though  the  mere 
recollection  gave  him  joy.  " '  Burn  it,'  he  told  me,  '  in  a 
brazier;  then  inhale.  You  will  enter  the  Valley  of  a 
Thousand  Temples  wherein  lies  the  Garden  of  Happiness, 
and  there  you  will  meet  your  Love.  You  will  have  seven 
years  of  happiness  with  your  Love  before  the  Waters  of 
Separation  flow  between  you.  I  give  this  to  you  who 
alone  of  men  here  have  appreciated  the  wisdom  of  my 
land.  Follow  my  body  towards  the  Sunrise.  You,  an 
eastern  soul  in  a  barbarian  body,  will  meet  your 
Destiny."' 

The  doctor's  attention,  such  is  the  power  of  self- 
interest,  quickened  amazingly  as  he  heard.  His  own 
romance  flamed  up  with  power.  His  friend — it  dawned 
upon  him  suddenly — loved  a  woman. 

"Come,"  said  Farque,  rising  quietly,  "we  will  go  into 
the  other  room,  and  I  will  show  you  what  I  have  shown  to 
but  one  other  in  the  world  before.  You  are  a  doctor,"  he 
continued,  as  he  led  the  way  to  the  silk-covered  divan 
where  golden  dragons  swallowed  crimson  suns,  and 
wonderful  jade  horses  hovered  near.  "You  understand 
the  mind  and  nerves.  States  of  consciousness  you  also 
can  explain,  and  the  effect  of  drugs  is,  doubtless,  known 
to  you."  He  swung  to  the  heavy  curtains  that  took  the 
place  of  door,  handed  a  lacquered  box  of  cigarettes  to  his 
friend,  and  lit  one  himself.  "Perfumes,  too,"  he  added, 
"you  probably  have  studied,  with  their  extraordinary 
evocative  power."  He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
the  green  light  falling  on  his  interesting'  and  thoughtful 
face,  and  for  a  passing  second  Francis,  watching1  keenly, 
observed  a  change  flit  over  it  and  vanish.  The  eyes  grew 
narrow  and  slid  tilted  upwards,  the  skin  wore  a  shade  of 
D 


42  The  Wolves  of  God 

yellow  underneath  the  green  from  the  lamp  of  jade,  the 
nose  slipped  back  a  little,  the  cheek-bones  forward. 

"Perfumes,"  said  the  doctor,  "no.  Of  perfumes  I 
know  nothing-,  beyond  their  interesting-  effect  upon  the 
memory.  I  cannot  help  you  there.  But,  you,  I  suspect," 
and  he  looked  up  with  an  inviting-  sympathy  that  con- 
cealed the  close  observation  underneath,  "you  yourself,  I 
feel  sure,  can  tell  me  something  of  value  about  them?  " 

"Perhaps,"  was  the  calm  reply,  "perhaps,  for  I  have 
smelt  the  perfume  of  the  Garden  of  Happiness,  and  I  have 
been  in  the  Valley  of  a  Thousand  Temples."  He  spoke 
with  a  glow  of  joy  and  reverence  almost  devotional. 

The  doctor  waited  in  some  suspense,  while  his  friend 
moved  towards  an  inlaid  cabinet  across  the  room.  More 
than  broad-minded,  he  was  that  much  rarer  thing",  an 
open-minded  man,  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to  discard 
all  preconceived  ideas,  provided  new  knowledge  that 
necessitated  the  holocaust  were  shown  to  him.  At  pre- 
sent, none  the  less,  he  held  very  definite  views  of  his  own. 
"Please  ask  me  any  questions  you  like,"  he  added.  "All 
I  know  is  entirely  yours,  as  always."  He  was  aware  of 
suppressed  excitement  in  his  friend  that  betrayed  itself  in 
every  word  and  look  and  gesture,  an  excitement  intense, 
and  not  as  yet  explained  by  anything-  he  had  seen  or 
heard. 

The  scholar,  meanwhile,  had  opened  a  drawer  in  the 
cabinet  and  taken  from  it  a  neat  little  packet  tied  up  with 
purple  silk.  He  held  it  with  tender,  almost  loving-  care,  as 
he  came  and  sat  down  on  the  divan  beside  his  friend. 

"This,"  he  said,  in  a  tone,  again,  of  something 
between  reverence  and  worship,  "  contains  what  I  have  to 
show  you  first."  He  slowly  unrolled  it,  disclosing-  a  yet 
smaller  silken  bag  within,  coloured  a  deep  rich  orange. 
There  were  two  vertical  columns  of  writing  on  it,  painted 
in  Chinese  characters.  The  doctor  leaned  forward  to 
examine  them.  His  friend  translated  : 

"The  Perfume  of  the  Garden  of  Happiness,"  he  read 


Chinese  Magic  43 

aloud,  tracing-  the  letters  of  the  first  column  with  his 
finger.  "The  Destroyer  of  Honourable  Homes,"  he 
finished,  passing  to  the  second,  and  then  proceeded  to 
unwrap  the  little  silken  bag-.  Before  it  was  actually  open, 
however,  and  the  pale  shredded  material  resembling 
coloured  chaff  visible  to  the  eyes,  the  doctor's  nostrils  had 
recognized  the  strange  aroma  he  had  first  noticed  about 
his  friend's  letter  received  earlier  in  the  day.  The  same 
soft,  penetrating  odour,  sharply  piercing,  sweet  and 
delicate,  rose  to  his  brain.  It  stirred  at  once  a  deep 
emotional  pleasure  in  him.  Having  come  to  him  first 
when  he  was  aglow  with  his  own  unexpected  romance,  his 
mind  and  heart  full  of  the  woman  he  had  just  left,  that 
delicious,  torturing  state  revived  in  him  quite  naturally. 
The  evocative  power  of  perfume  with  regard  to  memory 
is  compelling.  A  livelier  sympathy  towards  his  friend, 
and  towards  what  he  was  about  to  hear,  awoke  in  him 
spontaneously. 

He  did  not  mention  the  letter,  however.  He  merely 
leaned  over  to  smell  the  fragrant  perfume  more  easily. 

Farque  drew  back  the  open  packet  instantly,  at  the 
same  time  holding  out  a  warning  hand.  "Careful,"  he 
said  gravely,  "be  careful,  my  old  friend — unless  you  desire 
to  share  the  rapture  and  the  risk  that  have  been  mine. 
To  enjoy  its  full  effect,  true,  this  dust  must  be  burned  in  a 
brazier  and  its  smoke  inhaled ;  but  even  sniffed,  as  you 
now  would  sniff  it,  and  you  are  in  danger " 

"Of  what?  "  asked  Francis,  impressed  by  the  other's 
extraordinary  intensity  of  voice  and  manner. 

"Of  Heaven;  but,  possibly,  of  Heaven  before  your 
time." 


The  tale  that  Farque  unfolded  then  had  certainly  a 
strange  celestial  flavour,  a  glory  not  of  this  dull  world; 


44  The  Wolves  of  God 

and  as  his  friend  listened,  his  interest  deepened  with  every 
minute,  while  his  bewilderment  increased.  He  watched 
closely,  expert  that  he  was,  for  clues  that  might  guide  his 
deductions  aright,  but  for  all  his  keen  observation  and 
experience  he  could  detect  no  inconsistency,  no  weakness, 
nothing  that  betrayed  the  smallest  mental  aberration.  The 
origin  and  nature  of  what  he  already  decided  was  an  idde 
fixe,  a  mania,  evaded  him  entirely.  This  evasion  piqued 
and  vexed  him ;  he  had  heard  a  thousand  tales  of  similar 
type  before ;  that  this  one  in  particular  should  baffle  his 
unusual  skill  touched  his  pride.  Yet  he  faced  the  position 
honestly,  he  confessed  himself  baffled  until  the  end  of  the 
evening.  When  he  went  away,  however,  he  went  away 
satisfied,  even  forgetful — because  a  new  problem  of  yet 
more  poignant  interest  had  replaced  the  first. 

"It  was  after  three  years  out  there,"  said  Farque, 
"that  a  sense  of  my  loneliness  first  came  upon  me.  It 
came  upon  me  bitterly.  My  work  had  not  then  been 
recognized ;  obstacles  and  difficulties  had  increased ;  I  felt 
a  failure ;  I  had  accomplished  nothing.  And  it  seemed  to 
me  I  had  misjudged  my  capacities,  taken  a  wrong  direc- 
tion, and  wasted  my  life  accordingly.  For  my  move  to 
China,  remember,  was  a  radical  move,  and  my  boats  were 
burnt  behind  me.  This  sense  of  loneliness  was  really 
devastating." 

Francis,  already  fidgeting,  put  up  his  hand. 

"One  question,  if  I  may,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  not 
interrupt  again." 

"  By  all  means,"  said  the  other  patiently,  "what  is  it?  " 

"Were  you — we  are  such  old  friends  " — he  apologized 
— "were  you  still  celibate  as  ever?  " 

Farque  looked  surprised,  then  smiled.  "My  habits 
had  not  changed,"  he  replied,  "I  was,  as  always, 
celibate." 

"  Ah  !  "  murmured  the  doctor,  and  settled  down  to 
listen. 

"And  I  think  now,"  his  friend  went  on,  "that  it  was 


Chinese  Magic  45 

the  lack  of  companionship  that  first  turned  my  thoughts 
towards  conscious  disappointment.  However  that  may 
be,  it  was  one  evening,  as  I  walked  homewards  to  my 
little  house,  that  I  caught  my  imagination  lingering  upon 
English  memories,  though  chiefly,  I  admit,  upon  my  old 
Chinese  tutor,  the  dead  Shan-Yu. 

"  It  was  dusk,  the  stars  were  coming  out  in  the  pale 
evening  air,  and  the  orchards,  as  I  passed  them,  stood 
like  wavering  ghosts  of  unbelievable  beauty.  The  effect 
of  thousands  upon  thousands  of  these  trees,  flooding  the 
twilight  of  a  spring  evening  with  their  sea  of  blossom,  is 
almost  unearthly.  They  seem  transparencies,  their  colour 
hangs  sheets  upon  the  very  sky.  I  crossed  a  small 
wooden  bridge  that  joined  two  of  these  orchards  above  a 
stream,  and  in  the  dark  water  I  watched  a  moment  the 
mingled  reflection  of  stars  and  flowering  branches  on  the 
quiet  surface.  It  seemed  too  exquisite  to  belong  to  earth, 
this  fairy  garden  of  stars  and  blossoms,  shining  faintly  in 
the  crystal  depths,  and  my  thought,  as  I  gazed,  dived 
suddenly  down  the  little  avenue  that  memory  opened  into 
former  days.  I  remembered  Shan-Yu's  present,  given  to 
me  when  he  died.  His  very  words  came  back  to  me  :  The 
Garden  of  Happiness  in  the  Valley  of  the  Thousand 
Temples,  with  its  promise  of  love,  of  seven  years  of 
happiness,  and  the  prophecy  that  I  should  follow  his  body 
towards  the  Sunrise  and  meet  my  destiny. 

"This  memory  I  took  home  with  me  into  my  lonely 
little  one-storey  house  upon  the  hill.  My  servants  did  not 
sleep  there.  There  was  no  one  near.  I  sat  by  the  open 
window  with  my  thoughts,  and  you  may  easily  guess  that 
before  very  long  I  had  unearthed  the  long-forgotten 
packet  from  among  my  things,  spread  a  portion  of  its 
contents  on  a  metal  tray  above  a  lighted  brazier,  and  was 
comfortably  seated  before  it,  inhaling  the  light  blue  smoke 
with  its  exquisite  and  fragrant  perfume. 

"  A  light  air  entered  through  the  window,  the  distant 
orchards  below  me  trembled,  rose  and  floated  through  the 


46  The  Wolves  of  God 

dusk,  and  I  found  myself,  almost  at  once,  in  a  pavilion  of 
flowers;  a  blue  river  lay  shining1  in  the  sun  before  me,  as 
it  wandered  through  a  lovely  valley  where  I  saw  groves 
of  flowering  trees  among  a  thousand  scattered  temples. 
Drenched  in  light  and  colour,  the  Valley  lay  dreaming 
amid  a  peaceful  loveliness  that  woke  what  seemed  impos- 
sible, unrealizable,  longings  in  my  heart.  I  yearned 
towards  its  groves  and  temples,  I  would  bathe  my  soul  in 
that  flood  of  tender  light,  and  my  body  in  the  blue  coolness 
of  that  winding  river.  In  a  thousand  temples  must  I 
worship.  Yet  these  impossible  yearnings  instantly  were 
satisfied.  I  found  myself  there  at  once  .  .  .  and  the  time 
that  passed  over  my  head  you  may  reckon  in  centuries,  if 
not  in  ages.  I  was  in  the  Garden  of  Happiness  and  its 
marvellous  perfume  'banished  time  and  sorrow,  there  was 
no  end  to  chill  the  soul,  nor  any  beginning,  which  is  its 
foolish  counterpart. 

"Nor  was  there  loneliness."  The  speaker  clasped  his 
thin  hands,  and  closed  his  eyes  a  moment  in  what  was 
evidently  an  ecstasy  of  the  sweetest  memory  man  may  ever 
know.  A  slight  trembling  ran  through  his  frame,  com- 
municating itself  to  his  friend  upon  the  divan  beside  him 
— this  understanding,  listening,  sympathetic  friend,  whose 
eyes  had  never  once  yet  withdrawn  their  attentive  gaze 
from  the  narrator's  face. 

"I  was  not  alone,"  the  scholar  resumed,  opening  his 
eyes  again,  and  smiling  out  of  some  deep  inner  joy. 
"Shan-Yu  came  down  the  steps  of  the  first  temple  and 
took  my  hand,  while  the  great  golden  figures  in  the  dim 
interior  turned  their  splendid  shining  heads  to  watch. 
Then,  breathing  the  soul  of  his  ancient  wisdom  in  my  ear, 
he  led  me  through  all  the  perfumed  ways  of  that  en- 
chanted garden,  worshipping  with  me  at  a  hundred  death- 
less shrines,  led  me,  I  tell  you,  to  the  sound  of  soft  gongs 
and  gentle  bells,  by  fragrant  groves  and  sparkling  streams, 
mid  a  million  gorgeous  flowers,  until,  beneath  that  un- 
setting  sun,  we  reached  the  heart  of  the  Valley,  where  the 


Chinese  Magic  47 

source  of  the  river  gushed  forth  beneath  the  lighted 
mountains.  He  stopped  and  pointed  across  ithe  narrow 
waters.  I  saw  the  woman— — " 

"The  woman,"  his  listener  murmured  beneath  his 
breath,  though  Farque  seemed  unaware  of  interruption. 

"  She  smiled  at  me  and  held  her  hands  out,  ,and  while 
she  did  so,  even  before  I  could  express  my  joy  and  wonder 
in  response,  Shan-Yu,  I  saw,  had  crossed  the  narrow 
stream  and  stood  beside  her.  I  made  to  follow  then,  my 
heart  burning  with  inexpressible  delight.  But  Shan-Yu 
held  up  his  hand,  as  they  began  to  move  down  the  flowered 
bank  together,  making  a  sign  that  I  should  keep  pace  with 
them,  though  on  my  own  side. 

"Thus,  side  by  side,  yet  with  the  blue  sparkling  stream 
between  us,  we  followed  back  along  its  winding  course, 
through  the  heart  of  that  enchanted  valley,  my  hands 
stretched  out  towards  the  radiant  figure  of  my  Love,  and 
hers  stretched  out  towards  me.  They  did  not  touch,  but 
our  eyes,  our  smiles,  our  thoughts,  these  met  and  mingled 
in  a  sweet  union  of  unimagined  bliss,  so  that  the  absence 
of  physical  contact  was  unnoticed  and  laid  no  injury  on 
our  marvellous  joy.  It  was  a  spirit  union,  and  our  kiss  a 
spirit  kiss.  Therein  lay  the  subtlety  and  glory  of  the 
Chinese  wonder,  for  it  was  our  essences  that  met,  and  for 
such  union  there  is  no  satiety  and,  equally,  m>  possible 
end.  The  Perfume  of  the  Garden  of  Happiness  is  an 
essence.  We  were  in  Eternity. 

"The  stream,  meanwhile,  widened  between  us,  and  as 
it  widened,  my  Love  grew  farther  from  me  in  space, 
smaller,  less  visibly  defined,  yet  ever  essentially  more 
perfect,  and  never  once  with  a  sense  of  distance  that  made 
our  union  less  divinely  close.  Across  the  widening 
reaches  of  blue,  sunlit  water  I  still  knew  her  smile,  her 
eyes,  the  gestures  of  her  radiant  being  ;  I  saw  her  exquisite 
reflection  in  the  stream ;  and,  mid  the  music  of  those  soft 
gongs  and  gentle  bells,  the  voice  of  Shan-Yu  came  like  a 
melody  to  my  ears  : 


48  The  Wolves  of  God 

" '  You  have  followed  me  into  the  sunrise,  and  have 
found  your  destiny.  Behold  now  your  Love.  In  this 
Valley  of  a  Thousand  Temples  you  have  known  the 
Garden  of  Happiness,  and  its  Perfume  your  soul  now 
inhales. ' 

"'  I  am  bathed,*  I  answered,  'in  a  happiness  divine. 
It  is  for  ever. ' 

"'  The  Waters  of  Separation,'  his  answer  floated  like 
a  bell,  '  lie  widening  between  you.' 

"  I  moved  nearer  to  the  bank,  impelled  by  the  pain  in 
his  words  to  take  my  Love  and  hold  her  to  my  breast. 

"'  But  I  would  cross  to  her,'  I  cried,  and  saw  that,  as 
I  moved,  Shan-Yu  and  my  Love  came  likewise  closer  to  the 
water's  edge  across  the  widening  river.  They  both 
obeyed,  I  was  aware,  my  slightest  wish. 

"'Seven  years  of  Happiness  you  may  know,'  sang 
bis  gentle  tones  across  the  brimming  flood,  '  if  you 
would  cross  to  her.  Yet  the  Destroyer  of  Honourable 
Homes  lies  in  the  shadows  that  you  must  cast  outside/ 

"  I  heard  his  words,  I  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  in 
the  blaze  of  this  radiant  sunshine  we  cast  no  shadows  on 
the  sea  of  flowers  at  our  feet,  and — I  stretched  out  my 
arms  towards  my  Love  across  the  river. 

"'  I  accept  my  destiny,'  I  cried,  '  I  will  have  my  seven 
years  of  bliss, '  and  stepped  forward  into  the  running  flood. 
As  the  cool  water  took  my  feet,  my  Love's  hands  stretched 
out  both  to  hold  me  and  to  bid  me  stay.  There  was 
acceptance  in  her  gesture,  but  there  was  warning  too. 

"I  did  not  falter.  I  advanced  until  the  water  bathed 
my  knees,  and  my  Love,  too,  came  to  meet  me,  the  stream 
already  to  her  waist,  while  our  arms  stretched  forth  above 
the  running  flood  towards  each  other. 

"The  change  came  suddenly.  Shan-Yu  first  faded 
behind  her  advancing  figure  into  air;  there  stole  a  chill 
upon  the  sunlight ;  a  cool  mist  rose  from  the  water,  hiding 
the  Garden  and  the  hills  beyond;  our  fingers  touched,  I 
gazed  into  her  eyes,  our  lips  lay  level  with  the  water — 


Chinese  Magic  49 

and  the  roam  was  dark  and  cold  about  me.  The  brazier 
stood  extinguished  at  my  side.  The  dust  had  burnt  out, 
and  no  smoke  rose.  I  slowly  left  my  chair  and  closed  the 
window,  for  the  air  was  chill." 


It  was  difficult  at  first  to  return  to  Hampstead  and  the 
details  of  ordinary  life  about  him.  Francis  looked  round 
him  slowly,  freeing  himself  gradually  from  the  spell  his 
friend's  words  had  laid  even  upon  his  analytical  tempera- 
ment. The  transition  was  helped,  however,  by  the  details 
that  everywhere  met  his  eye.  The  Chinese  atmosphere 
remained.  More,  its  effect  had  gained,  if  anything.  The 
embroideries  of  yellow  gold,  the  pictures,  the  lacquered 
stools  and  inlaid  cabinets,  above  all,  the  exquisite  figures 
in  green  jade  upon  the  shelf  beside  him,  all  this,  in  the 
shimmering  pale  olive  light  the  lamps  shed  everywhere, 
helped  his  puzzled  mind  to  bridge  the  gulf  from  the  Garden 
of  Happiness  into  (the  decorated  villa  upon  Hampstead 
Heath. 

There  was  silence  between  the  two  men  for  several 
minutes.  Far  was  it  from  the  doctor's  desire  to  injure  his 
old  friend's  delightful  fantasy.  For  he  called  it  fantasy, 
although  something  in  him  trembled.  He  remained, 
therefore,  silent.  Truth  to  tell,  perhaps,  he  knew  not 
exactly  what  to  say. 

Farque  broke  the  silence  himself.  He  had  not  moved 
since  the  story  ended ;  he  sat  motionless,  his  hands  tightly 
clasped,  his  eyes  alight  with  the  memory  of  his  strange 
imagined  joy,  his  face  rapt  and  almost  luminous,  as 
though  he  still  wandered  through  the  groves  of  the  En- 
chanted Garden  and  inhaled  the  perfume  of  its  perfect 
happiness  in  the  Valley  of  the  Thousand  Temples. 

"It  was  two  days  later,"  he  went  on  suddenly  in  his 
quiet  voice,  "only  two  days  afterwards,  that  I  met  her," 


50  The  Wolves  of  God 

"  You  met  her  ?  You  met  the  woman  of  your  dream  ?  " 
Francis's  eyes  opened  very  wide. 

"In  that  little  harbour  town,"  repeated  Farque  calmly, 
"  I  met  her  in  the  flesh.  She  had  just  landed  in  a  steamer 
from  up  the  coast.  The  details  are  of  no  particular 
[interest.  She  knew  me,  of  course,  at  once.  And, 
naturally,  I  knew  her." 

The  doctor's  tongue  refused  to  act  as  he  heard.  It 
dawned  upon  him  suddenly  that  his  friend  was  married. 
He  remembered  the  woman's  touch  about  the  house;  he 
recalled,  too,  for  the  first  time  that  the  letter  of  invitation 
to  dinner  had  said  "come  to  us."  He  was  full  of  a 
bewildered  astonishment. 

The  reaction  upon  himself  was  odd,  perhaps,  yet  wholly 
natural.  His  heart  wanned  towards  his  imaginative 
friend.  He  could  now  tell  him  his  own  new  strange 
romance.  The  woman  who  haunted  him  crept  back 
into  the  room  and  sat  between  them.  He  found  his 
tongue. 

*'  You  married  her,  Edward  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"She  is  my  wife,"  was  the  reply,  in  a  gentle,  happy 
voice. 

"A  Ch "  he  could  not  bring-  himself  to  say  the 

word.  "  A  foreigner  ?  " 

"My  wife  is  a  Chinese  woman,"  Farque  helped  him 
easily,  with  a  delighted  smile. 

So  great  was  the  other's  absorption  in  the  actual 
moment,  that  he  had  not  heard  the  step  in  the  passage 
that  his  host  had  heard.  The  latter  stood  up  suddenly. 

"I  hear  her  now,"  he  said.  "I'm  glad  she's  come 
back  before  you  left."  He  stepped  towards  the  door. 

But  before  he  reached  it,  the  door  was  opened  and  in 
came  the  woman  herself.  Francis  tried  to  rise,  but  some- 
thing had  happened  to  him.  His  heart  missed  a  beat. 
Something,  it  seemed,  broke  in  him.  He  faced  a  tall, 
graceful  young  English  woman  with  black  eyes  of 
sparkling1  happiness,  the  woman  of  his  own  romance.  She 


Chinese  Magic  51 

still  wore  the  feather  boa  round  her  neck.     She  was  no 
more  Chinese  than  he  was. 

"My  wife,"  he  heard  Farque  introducing  them,  as  he 
struggled  to  his  feet,  searching  feverishly  for  words  of 
congratulation,  normal,  everyday  words  he  ought  to  use 
"I'm  so  pleased,  oh,  so  pleased,"  Farque  was  saying — 
he  heard  the  sound  from  a  distance,  his  sight  was  blurred 
as  well — "my  two  best  friends  in  the  world,  my  English 
comrade  and  my  Chinese  wife."  His  voice  was  absolutely 
sincere  with  conviction  and  belief. 

"But  we  have  already  met,"  came  the  woman's 
delightful  voice,  her  eyes  full  upon  his  face  with  smiling 
pleasure,  "I  saw  you  at  Mrs.  Malleson's  tea  only  this 
afternoon." 

And  Francis  remembered  suddenly  that  the  Mallesons 
were  old  acquaintances  of  Farque 's  as  well  as  of  himself. 
"And  I  even  dared  to  ask  who  you  were,"  the  voice  went 
on,  floating  from  some  other  space,  it  seemed,  to  his  ears, 
"  I  had  you  pointed  out  to  me.  I  had  heard  of  you  from 
Edward,  of  course.  But  you  vanished  before  I  could  be 
introduced." 

The  doctor  mumbled  something  or  other  polite  and,  he 
hoped,  adequate.  But  the  truth  had  flashed  upon  him 
with  remorseless  suddenness.  She  had  "  heard  of  "  him — 
the  famous  mental  specialist.  Her  interest  in  him  was 
cruelly  explained,  cruelly  both  for  himself  and  for  his 
friend.  Farque's  delusion  lay  clear  before  his  eyes.  An 
awakening  to  reality  might  involve  dislocation  of  the 
mind.  She,  too,  moreover,  knew  the  truth.  She  was 
involved  as  well.  And  her  interest  in  himself  was — 
consultation. 

"Seven  years  we've  been  married,  just  seven  years 
to-day,"  Farque  was  saying  thoughtfully,  as  he  looked  at 
them.  "Curious,  rather,  isn't  it?" 

"Very,"  said  Francis,  turning  his  regard  from  the 
black  eyes  to  the  grey. 

Thus  it  was  that  Owen  Francis  left  the  house  a  little 


52  The  Wolves  of  God 

later  with  a  mind  in  a  measure  satisfied,  yet  in  a  measure 
forgetful  too — forgetful  of  his  own  deep  problem,  because 
another  of  even  greater  interest  had  replaced  it. 

"Why  undeceive  him?  "  ran  his  thought.  "He  need 
never  know.  It's  harmless  anyhow — I  can  tell  her  that." 

But,  side  by  side  with  this  reflection,  ran  another  that 
w;as  oddly  haunting,  considering  his  type  of  mind  : 
"Destroyer  of  Honourable  Homes,"  was  the  form  of 
words  it  took.  And  with  a  sigh  he  added  "Chinese 
Magic." 


Ill 
RUNNING   WOLF 

THE  man  who  enjoys  an  adventure  outside  the  general 
experience  of  the  race,  and  imparts  it  to  others,  must 
not  be  surprised  if  he  is  taken  for  either  a  liar  or  a  fool, 
as  Malcolm  Hyde,  hotel  clerk  on  a  holiday,  discovered 
in  due  course.  Nor  is  "enjoy"  the  right  word  to  use 
in  describing  his  emotions ;  the  word  he  chose  was 
probably  "survive." 

When  he  first  set  eyes  on  Medicine  Lake  he  was 
struck  by  its  still,  sparkling  beauty,  lying  there  in  the 
vast  Canadian  backwoods  ;  next,  by  its  extreme  loneliness  ; 
and,  lastly — a  good  deal  later,  this — by  its  combination  of 
beauty,  loneliness,  and  singular  atmosphere,  due  to  the 
fact  that  it  was  the  scene  of  his  adventure. 

"It's  fairly  stiff  with  big  fish,"  said  Morton  of  the 
Montreal  Sporting  Club.  "Spend  your  holiday  there — 
up  Mattawa  way,  some  fifteen  miles  west  of  Stony  Creek. 
You'll  have  it  all  to  yourself  except  for  an  old  Indian 
who's  got  a  shack  there.  Camp  on  the  east  side — if 
you'll  take  a  tip  from  me."  He  then  talked  for  half 
an  hour  about  the  wonderful  sport ;  yet  he  was  not  other- 
wise very  communicative,  and  did  not  suffer  questions 
gladly,  Hyde  noticed.  Nor  had  he  stayed  there  very  long 
himself.  If  it  was  such  a  paradise  as  Morton,  its  dis- 
coverer and  the  most  experienced  rod  in  the  province, 
claimed,  why  had  he  himself  spent  only  three  days  there? 

"Ran  short  of  grub,"  was  the  explanation  offered; 
but  to  another  friend  he  had  mentioned  briefly,  "flies," 
and  to  a  third,  so  Hyde  learned  later,  he  gave  the  excuse 

33 


54  The  Wolves  of  God 

that  his  half-breed  "took  sick,"  necessitating  a  quick 
return  to  civilization. 

Hyde,  however,  cared  little  for  the  explanations;  his 
interest  in  these  came  later.  "Stiff  with  fish"  was  the 
phrase  he  liked.  He  took  the  Canadian  Pacific  train  to 
Mattawa,  laid  in  his  outfit  at  Stony  Creek,  and  set  off 
thence  for  the  fifteen-mile  canoe-trip  without  a  care  in 
the  world. 

Travelling  light,  the  portages  did  not  trouble  him ; 
the  water  was  swift  and  easy,  the  rapids  negotiable; 
everything  came  his  way,  as  the  saying  is.  Occasionally 
he  saw  big  fish  making  for  the  deeper  pools,  and  was 
sorely  tempted  to  stop;  but  he  resisted.  He  pushed  on 
between  the  immense  world  of  forests  that  stretched  for 
hundreds  of  miles,  known  to  deer,  bear,  moose,  and 
wolf,  but  strange  to  any  echo  of  human  tread,  a  deserted 
and  primeval  wilderness.  The  autumn  day  was  calm,  the 
water  sang  and  sparkled,  the  blue  sky  hung  cloudless 
over  all,  ablaze  with  light.  Toward  evening  he  passed 
an  old  beaver-dam,  rounded  a  little  point,  and  had  his  first 
sight  of  Medicine  Lake.  He  lifted  his  dripping  paddle; 
the  canoe  shot  with  silent  glide  into  calm  water.  He 
gave  an  exclamation  of  delight,  for  the  loveliness  caught 
his  breath  away. 

Though  primarily  a  sportsman,  he  was  not  insensible 
to  beauty.  The  lake  formed  a  crescent,  perhaps  four 
miles  long,  its  width  between  a  mile  and  half  a  mile. 
The  slanting  gold  of  sunset  flooded  it.  No  wind  stirred 
its  crystal  surface.  Here  it  had  lain  since  the  redskin's 
god  first  made  it ;  here  it  would  lie  until  he  dried  it  up 
again.  Towering  spruce  and  hemlock  trooped  to  its  very 
edge,  majestic  cedars  leaned  down  as  if  to  drink,  crimson 
sumachs  shone  in  fiery  patches,  and  maples  gleamed 
orange  and  red  beyond  belief.  The  air  was  like  wine, 
with  the  silence  of  a  dream. 

It  was  here  the  red  men  formerly  "made  medicine," 
with  all  the  wild  ritual  and  tribal  ceremony  of  an  ancient 


Running  Wolf  55 

day.  But  it  was  of  Morton,  rather  than  of  Indians,  that 
Hyde  thought.  If  this  lonely,  hidden  paradise  was  really 
stiff  with  big  fish,  he  owed  a  lot  to  Morton  for  the  in- 
formation. Peace  invaded  him,  but  the  excitement  of  the 
hunter  lay  below. 

He  looked  about  him  with  quick,  practised  eye  for  a 
camping-place  before  the  sun  sank  below  the  forests  and 
the  half-lights  came.  The  Indian's  shack,  lying  in  full 
sunshine  on  the  eastern  shore,  he  found  at  once ;  but  the 
trees  lay  too  thick  about  it  for  comfort,  nor  did  he  wish 
to  be  so  close  to  its  inhabitant.  Upon  the  opposite  side, 
however,  an  ideal  clearing  offered.  This  lay  already  in 
shadow,  the  huge  forest  darkening  it  toward  evening ; 
but  the  open  space  attracted.  He  paddled  over  quickly 
and  examined  it.  The  ground  was  hard  and  dry,  hie 
found,  and  a  little  brook  ran  tinkling  down  one  side  of 
it  into  the  lake.  This  outfall,  too,  would  be  a  good  fishing 
spot.  Also  it  was  sheltered.  A  few  low  willows  marked 
the  mouth. 

An  experienced  camper  soon  makes  up  his  mind.  It 
was  a  perfect  site,  and  some  charred  logs,  with  traces 
of  former  fires,  proved  that  he  was  not  the  first  to  think 
so.  Hyde  was  delighted.  Then,  suddenly,  disappoint- 
ment came  to  tinge  his  pleasure.  His  kit  was  landed, 
and  preparations  for  putting  up  the  tent  were  begun, 
when  he  recalled  a  detail  that  excitement  had  so  far  kept 
in  the  background  of  his  mind — Morton's  advice.  But 
not  Morton's  only,  for  the  storekeeper  at  Stony  Creek 
had  reinforced  it.  The  big  fellow  with  straggling  mous- 
tache and  stooping  shoulders,  dressed  in  shirt  and 
trousers,  had  handed  him  out  a  final  sentence  with  the 
bacon,  flour,  condensed  milk,  and  sugar.  He  had 
repeated  Morton's  half-forgotten  words  : 

"Put  yer  tent  on  the  east  shore.  I  should,"  he  had 
said  at  parting. 

He  remembered  Morton,  too,  apparently.  "A  shortish 
fellow,  brown  as  an  Indian  and  fairly  smelling  of  the 


56  The  Wolves  of  God 

woods.  Travelling  with  Jake,  the  half-breed."  That 
assuredly  was  Morton.  "Didn't  stay  long-,  now,  did 
he?  "  he  added  in  a  reflective  tone. 

"Going  Windy  Lake  way,  are  yer?  Or  Ten  Mile 
Water,  maybe?"  he  had  first  inquired  of  Hyde. 

"Medicine  Lake." 

"Is  that  so?  "  the  man  said,  as  though  he  doubted  it 
for  some  obscure  reason.  He  pulled  at  his  ragged  mous- 
tache a  moment.  "Is  that  so,  now?  "  he  repeated.  And 
the  final  words  followed  him  down-stream  after  a  con- 
siderable pause — the  advice  about  the  best  shore  on  which 
to  put  his  tent. 

All  this  now  suddenly  flashed  back  upon  Hyde's  mind 
with  a  tinge  of  disappointment  and  annoyance,  for  when 
two  experienced  men  agreed,  their  opinion  was  not  to  be 
lightly  disregarded.  He  wished  he  had  asked  the  store- 
keeper for  more  details.  He  looked  about  him,  he  re- 
flected, he  hesitated.  His  ideal  camping-ground  lay  cer- 
tainly on  the  forbidden  shore.  What  in  the  world,  he 
wondered,  could  be  the  objection  to  it? 

But  the  light  was  fading;  he  must  decide  quickly 
one  way  or  the  other.  After  staring  at  his  unpacked  dun- 
nage and  the  tent,  already  half  erected,  he  made  up  his 
mind  with  a  muttered  expression  that  consigned  both 
Morton  and  the  storekeeper  to  less  pleasant  places.  "  They 
must  have  some  reason,"  he  growled  to  himself;  "fellows 
like  that  usually  know  what  they're  talking  about.  I 
guess  I'd  better  shift  over  to  the  other  side — for  to-night, 
at  any  rate." 

He  glanced  across  the  water  before  actually  reloading. 
No  smoke  rose  from  the  Indian's  shack.  He  had  seen  no 
sign  of  a  canoe.  The  man,  he  decided,  was  away.  Re- 
luctantly, then,  he  left  the  good  camping-ground  and 
paddled  across  the  lake,  and  half  an  hour  later  his  tent  was 
up,  firewood  collected,  and  two  small  trout  were  already 
caught  for  supper.  But  the  bigger  fish,  he  knew,  lay 
waiting  for  him  on  the  other  side  by  the  little  outfall,  and 


Running  Wolf  57 

he  fell  asleep  at  length  on  his  bed  of  balsam  boughs, 
annoyed  and  disappointed,  yet  wondering  how  a  mere 
sentence  could  have  persuaded  him  so  easily  against  his 
own  better  judgment.  He  slept  like  the  dead ;  the  sun 
was  well  up  before  he  stirred. 

But  his  morning  mood  was  a  very  different  one.  The 
brilliant  light,  the  peace,  the  intoxicating  air,  all  this 
was  too  exhilarating  for  the  mind  to  harbour  foolish 
fancies,  and  he  marvelled  that  he  could  have  been  so  weak 
the  night  before.  No  hesitation  lay  in  him  anywhere.  He 
struck  camp  immediately  after  breakfast,  paddled  back 
across  the  strip  of  shining  water,  and  quickly  settled  in 
upon  the  forbidden  shore,  as  he  now  called  it,  with  a  con- 
temptuous grin.  And  the  more  he  saw  of  the  spot,  the 
better  he  liked  it.  There  was  plenty  of  wood,  running 
water  to  drink,  an  open  space  about  the  tent,  and  there 
were  no  flies.  The  fishing,  moreover,  was  magnificent. 
Morton's  description  was  fully  justified,  and  "stiff  with 
big  fish  "  for  once  was  not  an  exaggeration. 

The  useless  hours  of  the  early  afternoon  he  passed 
dozing  in  the  sun,  or  wandering  through  the  underbrush 
beyond  the  camp.  He  found  no  sign  of  anything  unusual. 
He  bathed  in  a  cool,  deep  pool ;  he  revelled  in  the  lonely 
little  paradise.  Lonely  it  certainly  was,  but  the  loneli- 
ness was  part  of  its  charm ;  the  stillness,  the  peace,  the 
isolation  of  this  beautiful  backwoods  lake  delighted  him. 
The  silence  was  divine.  He  was  entirely  satisfied. 

After  a  brew  of  tea,  he  strolled  toward  evening  along 
the  shore,  looking  for  the  first  sign  of  a  rising  fish.  A 
faint  ripple  on  the  water,  with  the  lengthening  shadows, 
made  good  conditions.  Plop  followed  plop,  as  the  big 
fellows  rose,  snatched  at  their  food,  and  vanished  into 
the  depths.  He  hurried  back.  Ten  minutes  later  he  had 
taken  his  rods  and  was  gliding  cautiously  in  the  canoe 
through  the  quiet  water. 

So  good  was  the  sport,  indeed,  and  so  quickly  did  the 
big  trout  pile  up  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe  that,  despite 
E 


58  The  Wolves  of  God 

the  growing  lateness,  he  found  it  hard  to  tear  himself 
away.  "One  more,"  he  said,  "and  then  I  really  will 
go."  He  landed  that  "one  more,"  and  was  in  the  act  of 
taking  it  off  the  hook,  when  the  deep  silence  of  the  even- 
ing was  curiously  disturbed.  He  became  abruptly  aware 
that  someone  watched  him.  A  pair  of  eyes,  it  seemed, 
were  fixed  upon  him  from  some  point  in  the  surrounding 
shadows. 

Thus,  at  least,  he  interpreted  the  odd  disturbance  in 
his  happy  mood;  for  thus  he  felt  it.  The  feeling  stole 
over  him  without  the  slightest  warning.  He  was  not 
alone.  The  slippery  big  trout  dropped  from  his  fingers. 
He  sat  motionless,  and  stared  about  him. 

Nothing  stirred ;  the  ripple  on  the  lake  had  died  away  ; 
there  was  no  wind ;  the  forest  lay  a  single  purple  mass 
of  shadow;  the  yellow  sky,  fast  fading,  threw  reflections 
that  troubled  the  eye  and  made  distances  uncertain.  But 
there  was  no  sound,  no  movement ;  he  saw  no  figure  any- 
where. Yet  he  knew  that  someone  watched  him,  and  a 
wave  of  quite  unreasoning  terror  gripped  him.  The  nose 
of  the  canoe  was  against  the  bank.  In  a  moment,  and 
instinctively,  he  shoved  it  off  and  paddled  into  deeper 
water.  The  watcher,  it  oame  to  him  also  instinctively, 
was  quite  close  to  him  upon  that  bank.  But  where?  And 
who?  Was  it  the  Indian? 

Here,  in  deeper  water,  and  some  twenty  yards  from 
the  shore,  he  paused  and  strained  both  sight  and  hearing 
to  find  some  possible  clue.  He  felt  half  ashamed,  now 
that  the  first  strange  feeling  passed  a  little.  But  the  cer- 
tainty remained.  Absurd  as  it  was,  he  felt  positive  that 
someone  watched  him  with  concentrated  and  intent  regard. 
Every  fibre  in  his  being  told  him  so ;  and  though  he  could 
discover  no  figure,  no  new  outline  on  the  shore,  he  could 
even  have  sworn  in  which  clump  of  willow  bushes  the 
hidden  person  crouched  and  stared.  His  attention  seemed 
drawn  to  that  particular  clump. 

The  water  dripped  slowly  from  his  paddle,  now  lying 


Running  Wolf  59 

across  the  thwarts.  There  was  no  other  sound.  The 
canvas  of  his  tent  gleamed  dimly.  A  star  or  two  were  out. 
He  waited.  Nothing  happened. 

Then,  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come,  the  feeling"  passed, 
and  he  knew  that  the  person  who  had  been  watching  him 
intently  had  gone.  It  was  as  if  a  current  had  been  turned 
off ;  the  normal  world  flowed  back  ;  the  landscape  emptied 
as  if  someone  had  left  a  room.  The  disagreeable  feeling 
left  him  at  the  same  time,  so  that  he  instantly  turned  the 
canoe  in  to  the  shore  again,  landed,  and,  paddle  in  hand, 
went  over  to  examine  the  clump  of  willows  he  had  singled 
out  as  the  place  of  concealment.  There  was  no  one  there, 
of  course,  nor  any  trace  of  recent  human  occupancy.  No 
leaves,  no  branches  stirred,  nor  was  a  single  twig  dis- 
placed; his  keen  and  practised  sight  detected  no  sign  of 
tracks  upon  the  ground.  Yet,  for  all  that,  he  felt  posi- 
tive that  a  little  time  ago  someone  had  crouched  among 
these  very  leaves  and  watched  him.  He  remained  abso- 
lutely convinced  of  it.  The  watcher,  whether  Indian, 
hunter,  stray  lumberman,  or  wandering  half-breed,  had 
now  withdrawn,  a  search  was  useless,  and  dusk  was  fall- 
ing". He  returned  to  his  little  camp,  more  disturbed  per- 
haps than  he  cared  to  acknowledge.  He  cooked  his  supper, 
hung  up  his  catch  on  a  string,  so  that  no  prowling  animal 
could  get  at  it  during  the  night,  and  prepared  to  make 
himself  comfortable  until  bedtime.  Unconsciously,  he 
built  a  bigger  fire  than  usual,  and  found  himself  peering 
over  his  pipe  into  the  deep  shadows  beyond  the  firelight, 
straining  his  ears  to  catch  the  slightest  sound.  He  re- 
mained generally  on  the  alert  in  a  way  that  was  new  to 
him. 

A  man  under  such  conditions  and  in  such  a  place  need 
not  know  discomfort  until  the  sense  of  loneliness  strikes 
him  as  too  vivid  a  reality.  Loneliness  in  a  backwoods 
camp  brings  charm,  pleasure,  and  a  happy  sense  of  calm 
until,  and  unless,  it  comes  too  near.  It  should  remain 
an  ingredient  only  among  other  conditions ;  it  should  not 


60  The  Wolves  of  God 

be  directly,  vividly  noticed.  Once  it  has  crept  within  short 
range,  however,  it  may  easily  cross  the  narrow  line  be- 
tween comfort  and  discomfort,  and  darkness  is  an  un- 
desirable time  for  the  transition.  A  curious  dread  may 
easily  follow — the  dread  lest  the  loneliness  suddenly  be 
disturbed,  and  the  solitary  human  feel  himself  open  to 
attack. 

For  Hyde,  now,  this  transition  had  been  already 
accomplished ;  the  too  intimate  sense  of  his  loneliness 
had  shifted  abruptly  into  the  worse  condition  of  no  longer 
being  quite  alone.  It  was  an  awkward  moment,  and  the 
hotel  clerk  realized  his  position  exactly.  He  did  not  quite 
like  it.  He  sat  there,  with  his  back  to  the  blazing  logs, 
a  very  visible  object  in  the  light,  while  all  about  him 
the  darkness  of  the  forest  lay  like  an  impenetrable  wall. 
He  could  not  see  a  foot  beyond  the  small  circle  of  his 
camp-fire ;  the  silence  about  him  was  like  the  silence  of 
the  dead.  No  leaf  rustled,  no  wave  lapped ;  he  himself 
sat  motionless  as  a  log. 

Then  again  he  became  suddenly  aware  that  the  person 
who  watched  him  had  returned,  and  that  same  intent  and 
concentrated  gaze  as  before  was  fixed  upon  him  where  he 
lay.  There  was  no  warning ;  he  heard  no  stealthy  tread 
or  snapping  of  dry  twigs,  yet  the  owner  of  those  steady 
eyes  was  very  close  to  him,  probably  not  a  dozen  feet 
away.  This  sense  of  proximity  was  overwhelming. 

It  is  unquestionable  that  a  shiver  ran  down  his  spine. 
This  time,  moreover,  he  felt  positive  that  the  man 
crouched  just  beyond  the  firelight,  the  distance  he  himself 
could  see  being  nicely  calculated,  and  straight  in  front  of 
him.  For  some  minutes  he  sat  without  stirring  a  single 
muscle,  yet  with  each  muscle  ready  and  alert,  straining 
his  eyes  in  vain  to  pierce  the  darkness,  but  only  succeed- 
ing in  dazzling  his  sight  with  the  reflected  light.  Then, 
as  he  shifted  his  position  slowly,  cautiously,  to  obtain 
another  angle  of  vision,  his  heart  gave  two  big  thumps 
against  his  ribs  and  the  hair  seemed  to  rise  on  his  scalp 


Running  Wolf  61 

with  the  sense  of  cold  that  shot  horribly  up  his  spine.  In 
the  darkness  facing  him  he  saw  two  small  and  greenish 
circles  that  were  certainly  a  pair  of  eyes,  yet  not  the  eyes 
of  Indian,  hunter,  or  of  any  human  being.  It  was  a  pair 
of  animal  eyes  that  stared  so  fixedly  at  him  out  of  the 
night.  And  this  certainty  had  an  immediate  and  natural 
effect  upon  him. 

For,  at  the  menace  of  those  eyes,  the  fears  of  millions 
of  long  dead  hunters  since  the  dawn  of  time  woke  in  him. 
Hotel  clerk  though  he  was,  heredity  surged  through  him 
in  an  automatic  wave  of  instinct.  His  hand  groped  for 
a  weapon.  His  fingers  fell  on  the  iron  head  of  his  small 
camp  axe,  and  at  once  he  was  himself  again.  Confidence 
returned ;  the  vague,  superstitious  dread  was  gone.  This 
was  a  bear  or  wolf  that  smelt  his  catch  and  came  to  steal 
it.  With  beings  of  that  sort  be  knew  instinctively  how 
to  deal,  yet  admitting,  by  this  very  instinct,  that  his 
original  dread  had  been  of  quite  another  kind. 

"I'll  damned  quick  find  out  what  it  is,"  he  exclaimed 
aloud,  and  snatching  a  burning  brand  from  the  fire,  he 
hurled  it  with  good  aim  straight  at  the  eyes  of  the  beast 
before  him. 

The  bit  of  pitch-pine  fell  in  a  shower  of  sparks  that  lit 
the  dry  grass  this  side  of  the  animal,  flared  up  a  moment, 
then  died  quickly  down  again.  But  in  that  instant  of 
bright  illumination  he  saw  clearly  what  his  unwelcome 
visitor  was.  A  big  timber  wolf  sat  on  its  hindquarters, 
staring  steadily  at  him  through  the  firelight.  He  saw  its 
legs  and  shoulders,  he  saw  its  hair,  he  saw  also  the  big 
hemlock  trunks  lit  up  behind  it,  and  the  willow  scrub  on 
each  side.  It  formed  a  vivid,  clear-cut  picture  shown  in 
clear  detail  by  the  momentary  blaze.  To  his  amazement, 
however,  the  wolf  did  not  turn  and  bolt  away  from  the 
burning  log,  but  withdrew  a  few  yards  only,  and  sat  there 
again  on  its  haunches,  staring,  staring  as  before. 
Heavens,  how  it  stared  !  He  "  shoo-ed  "  it,  but  without 
effect;  it  did  not  budge.  He  did  not  waste  another  good 


62  The  Wolves  of  God 

log  on  it,  for  his  fear  was  dissipated  now;  a  timber 
wolf  was  a  timber  wolf,  and  it  might  sit  there  as  long  as 
it  pleased,  provided  it  did  not  try  to  steal  his  catch.  No 
alarm  was  in  him  any  more.  He  knew  that  wolves  were 
harmless  in  the  summer  and  autumn,  and  even  when 
"packed  "  in  the  winter,  they  would  attack  a  man  only 
when  suffering  desperate  hunger.  So  he  lay  and  watched 
the  beast,  threw  bits  of  stick  in  its  direction,  even  talked 
to  it,  wondering  only  that  it  never  moved.  "You  can 
stay  there  for  ever,  if  you  like,"  he  remarked  to  it  aloud, 
"for  you  cannot  get  at  my  fish,  and  the  rest  of  the  grub  I 
shall  take  into  the  tent  with  me  !  " 

The  creature  blinked  its  bright  green  eyes,  but  made 
no  move. 

Why,  then,  if  his  fear  was  gone,  did  he  think  of  cer- 
tain things  as  he  rolled  himself  in  the  Hudson  Bay 
blankets  before  going  to  sleep?  The  immobility  of  the 
animal  was  strange,  its  refusal  to  turn  and  bolt  was  still 
stranger.  Never  before  had  he  known  a  wild  creature 
that  was  not  afraid  of  fire.  Why  did  it  sit  and  watch 
him,  as  with  purpose  in  its  dreadful  eyes?  How  had  he 
felt  its  presence  earlier  and  instantly?  A  timber  wolf, 
especially  a  solitary  timber  wolf,  was  a  timid  thing,  yet 
this  one  feared  neither  man  nor  fire.  Now,  as  he  lay  there 
wrapped  in  his  blankets  inside  the  cosy  tent,  it  sat  outside 
beneath  the  stars,  beside  the  fading  embers,  the  wind 
chilly  in  its  fur,  the  ground  cooling  beneath  its  planted 
paws,  watching  him,  steadily  watching  him,  perhaps  until 
the  dawn. 

It  was  unusual,  it  was  strange.  Having  neither 
imagination  nor  tradition,  he  called  upon  no  store  of  racial 
visions.  Matter  of  fact,  a  hotel  clerk  on  a  fishing  holiday, 
he  lay  there  in  his  blankets,  merely  wondering  and  puzzled. 
A  timber  wolf  was  a  timber  wolf  and  nothing  more.  Yet 
this  timber  wolf — the  idea  haunted  him — was  different. 
In  a  word,  the  deeper  part  of  his  original  uneasiness  re- 
mained. He  tossed  about,  he  shivered  sometimes  in  his 


Running  Wolf  63 

broken  sleep ;  he  did  not  go  out  to  see,  but  he  woke  early 
and  unrefreshed. 

Again,  with  the  sunshine  and  the  morning  wind,  how- 
ever, the  incident  of  the  night  before  was  forgotten,  almost 
unreal.  His  hunting  zeal  was  uppermost.  The  tea  and 
fish  were  delicious,  his  pipe  had  never  tasted  so  good,  the 
glory  of  this  lonely  lake  amid  primeval  forests  went  to 
his  head  a  little;  he  was  a  hunter  before  the  Lord,  and 
nothing  else.  He  tried  the  edge  of  the  lake,  and  in  the 
excitement  of  playing  a  big  fish,  knew  suddenly  that  it, 
the  wolf,  was  there.  He  paused  with  the  rod,  exactly  as 
if  struck.  He  looked  about  him,  he  looked  in  a  definite 
direction.  The  brilliant  sunshine  made  every  smallest 
detail  clear  and  sharp — boulders  of  granite,  burned  stems, 
crimson  sumach,  pebbles  along  the  shore  in  neat,  separate 
detail — without  revealing  where  the  watcher  hid.  Then,  his 
sight  wandering  farther  inshore  among  the  tangled  under- 
growth, he  suddenly  picked  up  the  familiar,  half-expected 
outline.  The  wolf  was  lying  behind  a  granite  boulder, 
so  that  only  the  head,  the  muzzle,  and  the  eyes  were 
visible.  It  merged  in  its  background.  Had  he  not  known 
it  was  a  wolf,  he  could  never  have  separated  it  from  the 
landscape.  The  eyes  shone  in  the  sunlight. 

There  it  lay.  He  looked  straight  at  it.  Their  eyes,  in 
fact,  actually  met  full  and  square.  "Great  Scott !  "  he  ex- 
claimed aloud,  "why,  it's  like  looking  at  a  human  being  !  " 
From  that  moment,  unwittingly,  he  established  a  sin- 
gular personal  relation  with  the  beast.  And  what  followed 
confirmed  this  undesirable  impression,  for  the  animal  rose 
instantly  and  came  down  in  leisurely  fashion  to  the  shore, 
where  it  stood  looking  back  at  him.  It  stood  and  stared 
into  his  eyes  like  some  great  wild  dog,  so  that  he  was 
aware  of  a  new  and  almost  incredible  sensation — that  it 
courted  recognition. 

"Well !  well !  "  he  exclaimed  again,  relieving  his  feel- 
ings by  addressing  it  aloud,  "if  this  doesn't  beat  every- 
thing I  ever  saw  !  What  d'you  want,  anyway?  " 


64  The  Wolves  of  God 

He  examined  it  now  more  carefully.  He  had  never 
seen  a  wolf  so  big  before ;  it  was  a  tremendous  beast,  a 
nasty  customer  to  tackle,  he  reflected,  if  it  ever  came  to 
that.  It  stood  there  absolutely  fearless  and  full  of  confi- 
dence. In  the  clear  sunlight  he  took  in  every  detail  of 
it — a  huge,  shaggy,  lean-flanked  timber  wolf,  its  wicked 
eyes  staring  straight  into  his  own,  almost  with  a  kind 
of  purpose  in  them.  He  saw  its  great  jaws,  its  teeth,  and 
its  tongue,  hung  out,  dropping  saliva  a  little.  And  yet  the 
idea  of  its  savagery,  its  fierceness,  was  very  little  in  him. 

He  was  amazed  and  puzzled  beyond  belief.  He  wished 
the  Indian  would  come  back.  He  did  not  understand  this 
strange  behaviour  in  an  animal.  Its  eyes,  the  odd  ex- 
pression in  them,  gave  him  a  queer,  unusual,  difficult 
feeling.  Had  his  nerves  gone  wrong,  he  almost  wondered. 

The  beast  stood  on  the  shore  and  looked  at  him.  He 
wished  for  the  first  time  that  he  had  brought  a  rifle. 
With  a  resounding  smack  he  brought  his  paddle  down 
flat  upon  the  water,  using  all  his  strength,  till  the  echoes 
rang  as  from  a  pistol-shot  that  was  audible  from  one  end 
of  the  lake  to  the  other.  The  wolf  never  stirred.  He 
shouted,  but  the  beast  remained  unmoved.  He  blinked 
his  eyes,  speaking  as  to  a  dog,  a  domestic  animal,  a 
creature  accustomed  to  human  ways.  It  blinked  its  eyes 
in  return. 

At  length,  increasing  his  distance  from  the  shore,  he 
continued  fishing,  and  the  excitement  of  the  marvellous 
sport  held  his  attention — his  surface  attention,  at  any  rate. 
At  times  he  almost  forgot  the  attendant  beast ;  yet  when- 
ever he  looked  up,  he  saw  it  there.  And  worse;  when 
he  slowly  paddled  home  again,  he  observed  it  trotting 
along  the  shore  as  though  to  keep  him  company.  Cross- 
ing a  little  bay,  he  spurted,  hoping  to  reach  the  other 
point  before  his  undesired  and  undesirable  attendant. 
Instantly  the  brute  broke  into  that  rapid,  tireless  lope 
that,  except  on  ice,  can  run  down  anything  on  four  legs 
in  the  woods.  When  he  reached  the  distant  point,  the 


Running  Wolf  65 

wolf  was  waiting  for  him.  He  raised  his  paddle  from 
the  water,  pausing  a  moment  for  reflection ;  for  this  very 
close  attention — there  were  dusk  and  night  yet  to  come — 
he  certainly  did  not  relish.  His  camp  was  near ;  he  had 
to  land ;  he  felt  uncomfortable  even  in  the  sunshine  of 
broad  day,  when,  to  his  keen  relief,  about  half  a  mile 
from  the  tent,  he  saw  the  creature  suddenly  stop  and 
sit  down  in  the  open.  He  waited  a  moment,  then  paddled 
on.  It  did  not  follow.  There  was  no  attempt  to  move ; 
it  merely  sat  and  watched  him.  After  a  few  hundred 
yards,  he  looked  back.  It  was  still  sitting  where  he  left 
it.  And  the  absurd,  yet  significant,  feeling  came  to  him 
that  the  beast  divined  his  thought,  his  anxiety,  his  dread, 
and  was  now  showing  him,  as  well  as  it  could,  that  it 
entertained  no  hostile  feeling  and  did  not  meditate  attack. 

He  turned  the  canoe  toward  the  shore ;  he  landed ;  he 
cooked  his  supper  in  the  dusk ;  the  animal  made  no  sign. 
Not  far  away  it  certainly  lay  and  watched,  but  it  did  not 
advance.  And  to  Hyde,  observant  now  in  a  new  way, 
came  one  sharp,  vivid  reminder  of  the  strange  atmosphere 
into  which  his  commonplace  personality  had  strayed  :  he 
suddenly  recalled  that  his  relations  with  the  beast,  already 
established,  had  progressed  distinctly  a  stage  further. 
This  startled  him,  yet  without  the  accompanying  alarm 
he  must  certainly  have  felt  twenty-four  hours  before.  He 
had  an  understanding  with  the  wolf.  He  was  aware  of 
friendly  thoughts  toward  it.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to 
set  out  a  few  big  fish  on  the  spot  where  he  had  first  seen 
it  sitting  the  previous  night.  "If  he  comes,"  he  thought, 
"he  is  welcome  to  them.  I've  got  plenty,  anyway."  He 
thought  of  it  now  as  "he." 

Yet  the  wolf  made  no  appearance  until  he  was  in  the 
act  of  entering  his  tent  a  good  deal  later.  It  was  close 
on  ten  o'clock,  whereas  nine  was  his  hour,  and  late  at 
that,  for  turning  in.  He  had,  therefore,  unconsciously 
been  waiting  for  him.  Then,  as  he  was  closing  the  flap, 
he  saw  the  eyes  close  to  where  he  had  placed  the  fish. 


66  The  Wolves  of  God 

He  waited,  hiding  himself,  and  expecting  to  hear  sounds 
of  munching1  jaws ;  but  all  was  silence.  Only  the  eyes 
glowed  steadily  out  of  the  background  of  pitch  darkness. 
He  closed  the  flap.  He  had  no  slightest  fear.  In  ten 
minutes  he  was  sound  asleep. 

He  could  not  have  slept  very  long,  for  when  he  woke 
up  he  could  see  the  shine  of  a  faint  red  light  through  the 
canvas,  and  the  fire  had  not  died  down  completely.  He 
rose  and  cautiously  peeped  out.  The  air  was  very  cold ; 
he  saw  his  breath.  But  he  also  saw  the  wolf,  for  it  had 
come  in,  and  was  sitting  by  the  dying  embers,  not  two 
yards  away  from  where  he  crouched  behind  the  flap. 
And  this  time,  at  these  very  close  quarters,  there  was 
something  in  the  attitude  of  the  big  wild  thing  that  caught 
his  attention  with  a  vivid  thrill  of  startled  surprise  and 
a  sudden  shock  of  cold  that  held  him  spellbound.  He 
stared,  unable  to  believe  his  eyes ;  for  the  wolf's  attitude 
conveyed  to  him  something  familiar  that  at  first  he  was 
unable  to  explain.  Its  pose  reached  him  in  the  terms  of 
another  thing  with  which  he  was  entirely  at  home.  What 
was  it?  Did  his  senses  betray  him?  Was  he  still  asleep 
and  dreaming? 

Then,  suddenly,  with  a  start  of  uncanny  recognition, 
he  knew.  Its  attitude  was  that  of  a  dog.  Having  found 
the  clue,  his  mind  then  made  an  awful  leap.  For  it  was, 
after  all,  no  dog  its  appearance  aped,  but  something 
nearer  to  himself,  and  more  familiar  still.  Good  heavens  ! 
It  sat  there  with  the  pose,  the  attitude,  the  gesture  in 
repose  of  something  almost  human.  And  then,  with  a 
second  shock  of  biting  wonder,  it  came  to  him  like  a 
revelation.  The  wolf  sat  beside  that  camp-fire  as  a  man 
might  sit. 

Before  he  could  weigh  his  extraordinary  discovery, 
before  he  could  examine  it  in  detail  or  with  care,  the 
animal,  sitting  in  this  ghastly  fashion,  seemed  to  feel 
his  eyes  fixed  on  it.  It  slowly  turned  and  looked  him 
in  the  face,  and  for  the  first  time  Hyde  felt  a  full-blooded, 


Running  Wolf  67 

superstitious  fear  flood  through  his  entire  being.  He 
seemed  transfixed  with  that  nameless  terror  that  is  said 
to  attack  human  beings  who  suddenly  face  the  dead,  find- 
ing themselves  bereft  of  speech  and  movement.  This 
moment  of  paralysis  certainly  occurred.  Its  passing, 
however,  was  as  singular  as  its  advent.  For  almost  at 
once  he  was  aware  of  something  beyond  and  above  this 
mockery  of  human  attitude  and  pose,  something  that  ran 
along  unaccustomed  nerves  and  reached  his  feeling,  even 
perhaps  his  heart.  The  revulsion  was  extraordinary,  its 
result  still  more  extraordinary  and  unexpected.  Yet  the 
fact  remains.  He  was  aware  of  another  thing  that  had 
the  effect  of  stilling  his  terror  as  soon  as  it  was  born. 
He  was  aware  of  appeal,  silent,  half  expressed,  yet  vastly 
pathetic.  He  saw  in  the  savage  eyes  a  beseeching,  even 
a  yearning,  expression  that  changed  his  mood  as  by  magic 
from  dread  to  natural  sympathy.  The  great  grey  brute, 
symbol  of  cruel  ferocity,  sat  there  beside  his  dying  fire 
and  appealed  for  help. 

This  gulf  betwixt  animal  and  human  seemed  in  that 
instant  bridged.  It  was,  of  course,  incredible.  Hyde, 
sleep  still  possibly  clinging  to  his  inner  being  with  the 
shades  and  half  shapes  of  dream  yet  about  his  soul, 
acknowledged,  how  he  knew  not,  the  amazing  fact.  He 
found  himself  nodding  to  the  brute  in  half  consent,  and 
instantly,  without  more  ado,  the  lean  grey  shape  rose 
like  a  wraith  and  trotted  off  swiftly,  but  with  stealthy 
tread,  into  the  background  of  the  night. 

When  Hyde  woke  in  the  morning  his  first  impression 
was  that  he  must  have  dreamed  the  entire  incident.  His 
practical  nature  asserted  itself.  There  was  a  bite  in  the 
fresh  autumn  air ;  the  bright  sun  allowed  no  half  lights 
anywhere;  he  felt  brisk  in  mind  and  body.  Reviewing 
what  had  happened,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
was  utterly  vain  to  speculate ;  no  possible  explanation  of 
the  animal's  behaviour  occurred  to  him  :  he  was  dealing 
with  something  entirely  outside  his  experience.  His  fear, 


68  The  Wolves  of  God 

however,  had  completely  left  him.  The  odd  sense  of 
friendliness  remained.  The  beast  had  a  definite  purpose, 
and  he  himself  was  included  in  that  purpose.  His 
sympathy  held  good. 

But  with  the  sympathy  there  was  also  an  intense 
curiosity.  "If  it  shows  itself  again,"  he  told  himself, 
"I'll  go  up  close  and  find  out  what  it  wants."  The  fish 
laid  out  the  night  before  had  not  been  touched. 

It  must  have  been  a  full  hour  after  breakfast  when 
he  next  saw  the  brute;  it  was  standing  on  the  edge  of 
the  clearing,  looking  at  him  in  the  way  now  become 
familiar.  Hyde  immediately  picked  up  his  axe  and 
advanced  toward  it  boldly,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  straight 
upon  its  own.  There  was  nervousness  in  him,  but  kept 
well  under ;  nothing  betrayed  it ;  step  by  step  he  drew 
nearer  until  some  ten  yards  separated  them.  The  wolf 
had  not  stirred  a  muscle  as  yet.  Its  jaws  hung  open, 
its  eyes  observed  him  intently ;  it  allowed  him  to  approach 
without  a  sign  of  what  its  mood  might  be.  Then,  with 
these  ten  yards  between  them,  it  turned  abruptly  and 
moved  slowly  off,  looking  back  first  over  one  shoulder 
and  then  over  the  other,  exactly  as  a  dog  might  do,  to 
see  if  he  was  following. 

A  singular  journey  it  was  they  then  made  together, 
animal  and  man.  The  trees  surrounded  them  at  once,  for 
they  left  the  lake  behind  them,  entering  the  tangled  bush 
beyond.  The  beast,  Hyde  noticed,  obviously  picked  the 
easiest  track  for  him  to  follow ;  for  obstacles  that  meant 
nothing  to  the  four-legged  expert,  yet  were  difficult  for 
a  man,  were  carefully  avoided  with  an  almost  uncanny 
skill,  while  yet  the  general  direction  was  accurately  kept. 
Occasionally  there  were  windfalls  to  be  surmounted ;  but 
though  the  wolf  bounded  over  these  with  ease,  it  was 
always  waiting  for  the  man  on  the  other  side  after  he 
had  laboriously  climbed  over.  Deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  heart  of  the  lonely  forest  they  penetrated  in  this 
singular  fashion,  cutting  across  the  arc  of  the  lake's 


Running  Wolf  69 

crescent,  it  seemed  to  Hyde ;  for  after  two  miles  or  so, 
he  recognized  the  big-  rocky  bluff  that  overhung  the  water 
at  its  northern  end.  This  outstanding  bluff  he  had  seen 
from  his  camp,  one  side  of  it  falling  sheer  into  the  water ; 
it  was  probably  the  spot,  he  imagined,  where  the  Indians 
held  their  medicine-making  ceremonies,  for  it  stood  out  in 
isolated  fashion,  and  its  top  formed  a  private  plateau  not 
easy  of  access.  And  it  was  here,  close  to  a  big  spruce 
at  the  foot  of  the  bluff  upon  the  forest  side,  that  the  wolf 
stopped  suddenly  and  for  the  first  time  since  its  appearance 
gave  audible  expression  to  its  feelings.  It  sat  down  on 
its  haunches,  lifted  its  muzzle  with  open  jaws,  and  gave 
vent  to  a  subdued  and  long-drawn  howl  that  was  more 
like  the  wail  of  a  dog  than  the  fierce  barking  cry  associated 
with  a  wolf. 

By  this  time  Hyde  had  lost  not  only  fear,  but  caution 
too ;  nor,  oddly  enough,  did  this  warning  howl  revive  a 
sign  of  unwelcome  emotion  in  him.  In  that  curious  sound 
he  detected  the  same  message  that  the  eyes  conveyed — 
appeal  for  help.  He  paused,  nevertheless,  a  little  startled, 
and  while  the  wolf  sat  waiting  for  him,  he  looked  about 
him  quickly.  There  was  young  timber  here ;  it  had  once 
been  a  small  clearing,  evidently.  Axe  and  fire  had  done 
their  work,  but  there  was  evidence  to  an  experienced  eye 
that  it  was  Indians  and  not  white  men  who  had  once 
been  busy  here.  Some  part  of  the  medicine  ritual,  doubt- 
less, took  place  in  the  little  clearing,  thought  the  man,  as 
he  advanced  again  towards  his  patient  leader.  The  end 
of  their  queer  journey,  he  felt,  was  close  at  hand. 

He  had  not  taken  two  steps  before  the  animal  got  up 
and  moved  very  slowly  in  the  direction  of  some  low  bushes 
that  formed  a  clump  just  beyond.  It  entered  these,  first 
looking  back  to  make  sure  that  its  companion  watched. 
The  bushes  hid  it;  a  moment  later  it  emerged  again. 
Twice  it  performed  this  pantomime,  each  time,  as  it  re- 
appeared, standing  still  and  staring  at  the  man  with  as 
distinct  an  expression  of  appeal  in  the  eyes  as  an  animal 


70  The  Wolves  of  God 

may  compass,  probably.  Its  excitement,  meanwhile,  cer- 
tainly increased,  and  this  excitement  was,  with  equal 
certainty,  communicated  to  the  man.  Hyde  made  up  his 
mind  quickly.  Gripping1  his  axe  tightly,  and  ready  to  use 
it  at  the  first  hint  of  malice,  he  moved  slowly  nearer  to 
the  bushes,  wondering-  with  something  of  a  tremor  what 
would  happen. 

If  he  expected  to  be  startled,  his  expectation  was  at 
once  fulfilled ;  but  it  was  the  behaviour  of  the  beast  that 
made  him  jump.  It  positively  frisked  about  him  like  a 
happy  dog.  It  frisked  for  joy.  Its  excitement  was 
intense,  yet  from  its  open  mouth  no  sound  was  audible. 
With  a  sudden  leap,  then,  it  bounded  past  him  into  the 
clump  of  bushes,  against  whose  very  edge  he  stood,  and 
began  scraping  vigorously  at  the  ground.  Hyde  stood 
and  stared,  amazement  and  interest  now  banishing  all  his 
nervousness,  even  when  the  beast,  in  its  violent  scraping, 
actually  touched  his  body  with  its  own.  He  had,  perhaps, 
the  feeling  that  he  was  in  a  dream,  one  of  those  fantastic 
dreams  in  which,  things  may  happen  without  involving  an 
adequate  surprise ;  for  otherwise  the  manner  of  scraping 
and  scratching  at  the  ground  must  have  seemed  an  im- 
possible phenomenon.  No  wolf,  no  dog  certainly,  used  its 
paws  in  the  way  those  paws  were  working.  Hyde  had  the 
odd,  distressing  sensation  that  it  was  hands,  not  paws,  he 
watched.  And  yet,  somehow,  the  natural,  adequate  sur- 
prise he  should  have  felt  was  absent.  The  strange  action 
seemed  not  entirely  unnatural.  In  his  heart  some  deep 
hidden  spring  of  sympathy  and  pity  stirred  instead.  He 
was  aware  of  pathos. 

The  wolf  stopped  in  its  task  and  looked  up  into  his 
face.  Hyde  acted  without  hesitation  then.  Afterwards 
he  was  wholly  at  a  loss  to  explain  his  own  conduct.  It 
seemed  he  knew  what  to  do,  divined  what  was  asked,  ex- 
pected of  him.  Between  his  mind  and  the  dumb  desire 
yearning  through  the  savage  animal  there  was  intelligent 
and  intelligible  communication.  He  cut  a  stake  and 


Running  Wolf  71 

sharpened  it,  for  the  stones  would  blunt  his  axe-edge.  He 
entered  the  clump  of  bushes  to  complete  the  digging  his 
four-legged  companion  had  begun.  And  while  he  worked, 
though  he  did  not  forget  the  close  proximity  of  the  wolf, 
he  paid  no  attention  to  it ;  often  his  back  was  turned  as  he 
stooped  over  the  laborious  clearing  away  of  the  hard 
earth;  no  uneasiness  or  sense  of  danger  was  in  him  any 
more.  The  wolf  sat  outside  the  clump  and  watched  the 
operations.  Its  concentrated  attention,  its  patience,  its 
intense  eagerness,  the  gentleness  and  docility  of  the  grey, 
fierce,  and  probably  hungry  brute,  its  obvious  pleasure  and 
satisfaction,  too,  at  having  won  the  human  to  its  mys- 
terious purpose — these  were  colours  in  the  strange  picture 
that  Hyde  thought  of  later  when  dealing  with  the  human 
herd  in  his  hotel  again.  At  the  moment  he  was  aware 
chiefly  of  pathos  and  affection.  The  whole  business  was, 
of  course,  not  to  be  believed,  but  that  discovery  came  later, 
too,  when  telling  it  to  others. 

The  digging  continued  for  fully  half  an  hour  before 
his  labour  was  rewarded  fry  the  discovery  of  a  small 
whitish  object.  He  picked  it  up  and  examined  it — the 
finger-bone  of  a  man.  Other  discoveries  then  followed 
quickly  and  in  quantity.  The  cache  was  laid  bare.  He 
collected  nearly  the  complete  skeleton.  The  skull,  how- 
ever, he  found  last,  and  might  not  have  found  at  all  but 
for  the  guidance  of  his  strangely  alert  companion.  It  lay 
some  few  yards  away  from  the  central  hole  now  dug,  and 
the  wolf  stood  nuzzling  the  ground  with  its  nose  before 
Hyde  understood  that  he  was  meant  to  dig  exactly  in  that 
spot  for  it.  Between  the  beast's  very  paws  his  stake 
struck  hard  upon  it.  He  scraped  the  earth  from  the  bone 
and  examined  it  carefully.  It  was  perfect,  save  for  the 
fact  that  some  wild  animal  had  gnawed  it,  the  teeth-marks 
being  still  plainly  visible.  Close  beside  it  lay  the  rusty 
iron  head  of  a  tomahawk.  This  and  the  smallness  of  the 
bones  confirmed  him  in  liis  judgment  that  it  was  the 
skeletoq  not  of  a  white  man,  but  of  an  Indian. 


72  The  Wolves  of  God 

During  the  excitement  of  the  discovery  of  the  bones 
one  by  one,  and  finally  of  the  skull,  but,  more  especially, 
during  the  period  of  intense  interest  while  Hyde  was 
examining  them,  he  had  paid  little,  if  any,  attention  to  the 
wolf.  He  was  aware  that  it  sat  and  watched  him,  never 
moving  its  keen  eyes  for  a  single  moment  from  the  actual 
operations,  but  of  sign  or  movement  it  made  none  at  all. 
He  knew  that  it  was  pleased  and  satisfied,  he  knew  also 
that  he  had  now  fulfilled  its  purpose  in  a  great  measure. 
The  further  intuition  that  now  came  to  him,  derived,  he 
felt  positive,  from  his  companion's  dumb  desire,  was 
perhaps  the  cream  of  the  entire  experience  to  him.  Gather- 
ing the  bones  together  in  his  coat,  he  carried  them, 
together  with  the  tomahawk,  to  the  foot  of  the  big  spruce 
where  the  animal  had  first  stopped.  His  leg  actually 
touched  the  creature's  muzzle  as  he  passed.  It  turned 
its  head  to  watch,  but  did  not  follow,  nor  did  it  move  a 
muscle  while  he  prepared  the  platform  of  boughs  upon 
which  he  then  laid  the  poor  worn  bones  of  an  Indian  who 
had  been  killed,  doubtless,  in  sudden  attack  or  ambush, 
and  to  whose  remains  had  been  denied  the  last  grace  of 
proper  tribal  burial.  He  wrapped  the  bones  in  bark ;  he 
laid  the  tomahawk  beside  the  skull;  he  lit  the  circular  fire 
round  the  pyre,  and  the  blue  smoke  rose  upward  into  the 
clear  bright  sunshine  of  the  Canadian  autumn  morning 
till  it  was  lost  among  the  mighty  trees  far  overhead. 

In  the  moment  before  actually  lighting  the  little  fire 
he  had  turned  to  note  what  his  companion  did.  It  sat 
five  yards  away,  he  saw,  gazing  intently,  and  one  of  its 
front  paws  was  raised  a  little  from  the  ground.  It  made 
no  sign  of  any  kind.  He  finished  the  work,  becoming  so 
absorbed  in  it  that  he  had  eyes  for  nothing  but  the  tend- 
ing and  guarding  of  his  careful  ceremonial  fire.  It  was 
only  when  the  platform  of  boughs  collapsed,  laying  their 
charred  burden  gently  on  the  fragrant  earth  among  the 
soft  wood  ashes,  that  he  turned  again,  as  though  to  show 
the  wolf  what  he  had  done,  and  seek,  perhaps,  some  look 


Running  Wolf  73 

of  satisfaction  in  its  curiously  expressive  eyes.     But  the 
place  he  searched  was  empty.    The  wolf  had  gone. 

He  did  not  see  it  again ;  it  gave  no  sign  of  its  pre- 
sence anywhere;  he  was  not  watched.  He  fished  as 
before,  wandered  through  the  bush  about  his  camp,  sat 
smoking  round  his  fire  after  dark,  and  slept  peacefully 
in  his  cosy  little  tent.  He  was  not  disturbed.  No  howl 
was  ever  audible  in  the  distant  forest,  no  twig  snapped 
beneath  a  stealthy  tread,  he  saw  no  eyes.  The  wolf  that 
behaved  like  a  man  had  gone  for  ever. 

It  was  the  day  before  he  left  that  Hyde,  noticing 
smoke  rising  from  the  shack  across  the  lake,  paddled  over 
to  exchange  a  word  or  two  with,  the  Indian,  who  had 
evidently  now  returned.  The  Redskin  came  down  to  meet 
him  as  he  landed,  but  it  was  soon  plain  that  he  spoke  very 
little  English.  He  emitted  the  familiar  grunts  at  first ; 
then  bit  by  bit  Hyde  stirred  his  limited  vocabulary  into 
action.  The  net  result,  however,  was  slight  enough, 
though  it  was  certainly  direct : 

"You  camp  there?  "  the  man  asked,  pointing  to  the 
other  side. 

"Yes." 

"Wolf  come?" 

"Yes." 

"You  see  wolf?" 

"Yes." 

The  Indian  stared  at  him  fixedly  a  moment,  a  keen, 
wondering  look  upon  his  coppery,  creased  face. 

"You  'fraid  wolf?  "  he  asked  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"No,"  replied  Hyde,  truthfully.  He  knew  it  was  use- 
less to  ask  questions  of  his  own,  though  he  was  eager  for 
information.  The  other  would  have  told  him  nothing.  It 
was  sheer  luck  that  the  man  had  touched  on  the  subject  at 
all,  and  Hyde  realized  that  his  own  best  r61e  was  merely  to 
answer,  but  to  ask  no  questions.  Then,  suddenly,  the 
Indian  became  comparatively  voluble.  There  was  awe  in 
his  voice  and  manner, 
F 


74  The  Wolves  of  God 

"Him  no  wolf.  Him  big  medicine  wolf.  Him  spirit 
wolf." 

Whereupon  he  drank  the  tea  the  other  had  brewed  for 
him,  closed  his  lips  tightly,  and  said  no  more.  His  out- 
line was  discernible  on  the  shore,  rigid  and  motionless,  an 
hour  later,  when  Hyde's  canoe  turned  the  corner  of  the 
lake  three  miles  away,  and  landed  to  make  the  portages  up 
the  first  rapid  of  his  homeward  stream. 

It  was  Morton  who,  after  some  persuasion,  supplied 
further  details  of  what  he  called  the  legend.  Some  hun- 
dred years  before,  the  tribe  that  lived  in  the  territory 
beyond  trie  lake  began  their  annual  medicine-making 
ceremonies  on  the  big  rocky  bluff  at  the  northern  end ; 
but  no  medicine  could  be  made.  The  spirits,  declared  the 
chief  medicine  man,  would  not  answer.  They  were 
offended.  An  investigation  followed.  It  was  discovered 
that  a  young  brave  had  recently  killed  a  wolf,  a  thing 
strictly  forbidden,  since  the  wolf  was  the  totem  animal  of 
the  tribe.  To  make  matters  worse,  the  name  of  the  guilty 
man  was  Running  Wolf.  The  offence  being  unpardon- 
able, the  man  was  cursed  and  driven  from  the  tribe  : 

"  Go  out.  Wander  alone  among  the  woods,  and  if  we 
see  you  we  slay  you.  Your  bones  shall  be  scattered  in  the 
forest,  and  your  spirit  shall  not  enter  the  Happy  Hunting 
Grounds  till  one  of  another  race  shall  find  and  bury  them." 
.  "  Which  meant,"  explained  Morton  laconically,  his  only 
comment  on  the  story,  " probably  for  ever." 


IV 
FIRST   HATE 

THEY  had  been  shooting  all  day;  the  weather  had  been 
perfect  and  the  powder  straight,  so  that  when  they 
assembled  in  the  smoking-room  after  dinner  they  were 
well  pleased  with  themselves.  From  discussing  the  day's 
sport  and  the  weather  outlook,  the  conversation  drifted 
to  other,  though  still  cognate,  fields.  Lawson,  the  crack 
shot  of  the  party,  mentioned  the  instinctive  recognition 
all  animals  feel  for  their  natural  enemies,  and  gave  several 
instances  in  which  he  had  tested  it — tame  rats  with  a 
ferret,  birds  with  a  snake,  and  so  forth. 

"Even  after  being  domesticated  for  generations,"  he 
said,  "they  recognize  their  natural  enemy  at  once  by 
instinct,  an  enemy  they  can  never  even  have  seen  before. 
It's  infallible.  They  know  instantly." 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  a  voice  from  the  corner  chair; 
"and  so  do  we." 

The  speaker  was  Ericssen,  their  host,  a  great  hunter 
before  the  Lord,  generally  uncommunicative  but  a  good 
listener,  leaving  the  talk  to  others.  For  this  latter  reason, 
as  well  as  for  a  certain  note  of  challenge  in  his  voice,  his 
abrupt  statement  gained  attention. 

"What  do  you  mean  exactly  by  '  so  do  we  '?  "  asked 
three  men  together,  after  waiting  some  seconds  to  see 
whether  he  meant  to  elaborate,  which  he  evidently  did 
not. 

"We  belong  to  the  animal  kingdom,  of  course,"  put 
in  a  fourth,  for  behind  the  challenge  there  obviously  lay 
a  story,  though  a  story  that  might  be  difficult  to  drag 
out  of  him.  It  was. 

75 


76  The  Wolves  of  God 

Ericssen,  who  had  leaned  forward  a  moment  so  that 
his  strong",  humorous  face  was  in  clear  light,  now  sank 
back  again  into  his  chair,  his  expression  concealed  by 
the  red  lampshade  at  his  side.  The  light  played  tricks, 
obliterating  the  humorous,  almost  tender  lines,  while 
emphasizing  the  strength  of  the  jaw  and  nose.  The  red 
glare  lent  to  the  whole  a  rather  grim  expression. 

Lawson,  man  of  authority  among  them,  broke  the 
little  pause. 

" You're  dead  right,"  he  observed,  "but  how  do  you 
know  it?  " — for  John  Ericssen  never  made  a  positive 
statement  without  a  good  reason  for  it.  That  good 
reason,  he  felt  sure,  involved  a  personal  proof,  but  a  story 
Ericssen  would  never  tell  before  a  general  audience.  He 
would  tell  it  later,  however,  when  the  others  had  left. 
"There's  such  a  thing  as  instinctive  antipathy,  of  course," 
he  added,  with  a  laugh,  looking  round  him.  "That's  what 
you  mean  probably." 

"I  meant  exactly  what  I  said,"  replied  the  host 
bluntly.  "There's  first  love.  There's  first  hate,  too." 

"Hate's  a  strong  word,"  remarked  Lawson. 

"So  is  love,"  put  in  another. 

"Hate's  strongest,"  said  Ericssen  grimly.  "In  the 
animal  kingdom,  at  least,"  he  added  suggestively,  and 
then  kept  his  lips  closed,  except  to  sip  his  liquor,  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening — until  the  party  at  length  broke  up, 
leaving  Lawson  and  one  other  man,  both  old  trusted 
friends  of  many  years'  standing. 

"It's  not  a  tale  I'd  tell  to  everybody,"  he  began,  when 
they  were  alone.  "It's  true,  for  one  thing;  for  another, 
you  see,  some  of  those  good  fellows  " — he  indicated  the 
empty  chairs  with  an  expressive  nod  of  his  great  head — 
"some  of  'em  knew  him.  You  both  knew  him  too, 
probably." 

"The  man  you  hated,"  said  the  understanding 
Lawson. 

"And  who  hated  me,"  came  the  quiet  confirmation. 


First  Hate  77 

"My  other  reason,"  he  went  on,  "for  keeping  quiet  was 
that  the  tale  involves  my  wife." 

The  two  listeners  said  nothing,  but  each  remembered 
the  curiously  long  courtship  that  had  been  the  prelude 
to  his  marriage.  No  engagement  had  been  announced, 
the  pair  were  devoted  to  one  another,  there  was  no  known 
rival  on  either  side ;  yet  the  courtship  continued  without 
coming  to  its  expected  conclusion.  Many  stories  were 
afloat  in  consequence.  It  was  a  social  mystery  that 
intrigued  the  gossips. 

"I  may  tell  you  two,"  Ericssen  continued,  "the  reason 
my  wife  refused  for  so  long  to  marry  me.  It  is  hard  to 
believe,  perhaps,  but  it  is  true.  Another  man  wished  to 
make  her  his  wife,  and  she  would  not  consent  to  marry 
me  until  that  other  man  was  dead.  Quixotic,  absurd,  un- 
reasonable? If  you  like.  I'll  tell  you  what  she  said." 
He  looked  up  with  a  significant  expression  in  his  face 
which  proved  that  he,  at  least,  did  not  now  judge  her 
reason  foolish.  "'  Because  it  would  be  murder,'  she  told 
me.  '  Another  man  who  wants  to  marry  me  would  kill 
you.'  " 

"She  had  some  proof  for  the  assertion,  no  doubt?" 
suggested  Lawson. 

"None  whatever,"  was  the  reply.  "Merely  her 
woman's  instinct.  Moreover,  I  did  not  know  who  the 
other  man  was,  nor  would  she  ever  tell  me." 

"Otherwise  you  might  have  murdered  him  instead?  " 
said  Baynes,  the  second  listener. 

"I  did,"  said  Ericssen  grimly.  "But  without  know- 
ing he  was  the  man."  He  sipped  his  whisky  and  relit  his 
pipe.  The  others  waited. 

"Our  marriage  took  place  two  months  later — just  after 
Hazel's  disappearance." 

"Hazel?  "  exclaimed  Lawson  and  Baynes  in  a  single 
breath.  "  Hazel  !  Member  of  the  Hunters  !  "  His 
mysterious  disappearance  had  been  a  nine  days'  wonder 
some  ten  years  ago.  It  had  never  been  explained. 


78  The  Wolves  of  God 

They  had  all  been  members  of  the  Hunters'  Club 
together. 

"That's  the  chap,"  Ericssen  said.  "Now  I'll  tell  you 
the  tale,  if  you  care  to  hear  it."  They  settled  back  in 
their  chairs  to  listen,  and  Ericssen,  who  had  evidently 
never  told  the  affair  to  another  living  soul  except  his 
own  wife,  doubtless,  seemed  glad  this  time  to  tell  it  to 
two  men. 

"It  began  some  dozen  years  ago  when  my  brother 
Jack  and  I  came  home  from  a  shooting  trip  in  China. 
I've  often  told  you  about  our  adventures  there,  and  you 
see  the  heads  hanging  up  here  in  the  smoking-room — 
some  of  'em."  He  glanced  round  proudly  at  the  walls. 
"We  were  glad  to  be  in  town  again  after  two  years' 
roughing  it,  and  we  looked  forward  to  our  first  good 
dinner  at  the  club,  to  make  up  for  the  rotten  cooking 
we  had  endured  so  long.  We  had  ordered  that  dinner 
in  anticipatory  detail  many  a  time  together.  Well,  we 
had  it  and  enjoyed  it  up  to  a  point — the  point  of  the 
entrte,  to  be  exact. 

"  Up  to  that  point  it  was  delicious,  and  we  let  ourselves 
go,  I  can  tell  you.  We  had  ordered  the  very  wine  we 
had  planned  months  before  when  we  were  snow-bound 
and  half  starving  in  the  mountains."  He  smacked  his 
lips  as  he  mentioned  it.  "I  was  just  starting  on  a  beauti- 
fully cooked  grouse,"  he  went  on,  "when  a  figure  went 
by  our  table,  and  Jack  looked  up  and  nodded.  The  two 
exchanged  a  brief  word  of  greeting  and  explanation,  and 
the  other  man  passed  on.  Evidently  they  knew  each 
other  just  enough  to  make  a  word  or  two  necessary,  but 
enough. 

"'Who's  that?  '   I  asked. 

"'  A  new  member,  named  Hazel,'  Jack  told  me.  '  A 
great  shot.'  He  knew  him  slightly,  he  explained;  he 
had  once  been  a  client  of  his — Jack  was  a  barrister,  you 
remember — and  had  defended  him  in  some  financial  case 
or  other.  Rather  an  unpleasant  case,  he  added.  Jack  did 


First  Hate  79 

not  '  care  about  '  the  fellow,  he  told  me,  as  he  went  on 
with  his  tender  wing  of  grouse." 

Ericssen  paused  to  relight  his  pipe  a  moment. 

"Not  care  about  him!"  he  continued.  "It  didn't 
surprise  me,  for  my  own  feeling1,  the  instant  I  set  eyes 
on  the  fellow,  was  one  of  violent,  instinctive  dislike  that 
amounted  to  loathing.  Loathing!  No.  I'll  give  it  the 
right  word — hatred.  I  simply  couldn't  help  myself;  I 
hated  the  man  from  the  very  first  go  off.  A  wave  of 
repulsion  swept  over  me  as  I  followed  him  down  the  room 
a  moment  with  my  eyes,  till  he  took  his  seat  at  a  distant 
table  and  was  out  of  sight.  Ugh  !  He  was  a  big,  fat- 
faced  man,  with  an  eyeglass  glued  into  one  of  his  pale- 
blue  cod-like  eyes — out  of  condition,  ugly  as  a  toad,  with 
a  smug  expression  of  intense  self-satisfaction  on  his  jowl 
that  made  me  long  to 

"  I  leave  it  to  you  to  guess  what  I  would  have  liked 
to  do  to  him.  But  the  instinctive  loathing  he  inspired 
in  me  had  another  aspect,  too.  Jack  had  not  introduced 
us  during  the  momentary  pause  beside  our  table,  but  as 
I  looked  up  I  caught  the  fellow's  eye  on  mine — he  was 
glaring  at  me  instead  of  at  Jack,  to  whom  he  was  talking 
— with  an  expression  of  malignant  dislike,  as  keen  evi- 
dently as  my  own.  That's  the  other  aspect  I  meant. 
He  hated  me  as  violently  as  I  hated  him.  We  were 
instinctive  enemies,  just  as  the  rat  and  ferret  are  instinc- 
tive enemies.  Each  recognized  a  mortal  foe.  It  was  a 
case — I  swear  it — of  whoever  got  first  chance." 

"  Bad  as  that  !  "  exclaimed  Baynes.  "  I  knew  him  by 
sight.  He  wasn't  pretty,  I'll  admit." 

"I  knew  him  to  nod  to,"  Lawson  mentioned.  "I 
never  heard  anything  particular  against  him."  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Ericssen  went  on.  "  It  was  not  his  character  or 
qualities  I  hated,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  even  know  them. 
That's  the  whole  point.  There's  no  reason  you  fellows 
should  have  disliked  him.  My  hatred — our  mutual  hatred 


8o  The  Wolves  of  God 

—was  instinctive,  as  instinctive  as  first  love.  A  man 
knows  his  natural  mate ;  also  he  knows  his  natural  enemy. 
I  did,  at  any  rate,  both  with  him  and  with  my  wife. 
Given  the  chance,  Hazel  would  have  done  me  in ;  just  as 
surely,  given  the  chance,  I  would  have  done  him  in.  No 
blame  to  either  of  us,  what's  more,  in  my  opinion." 

"I've  felt  dislike,  but  never  hatred  like  that,"  Baynes 
mentioned.  "I  came  across  it  in  a  book  once,  though. 
The  writer  did  not  mention  the  instinctive  fear  of  the 
human  animal  for  its  natural  enemy,  or  anything  of  that 
sort.  He  thought  it  was  a  continuance  of  a  bitter  feud 
began  in  an  earlier  existence.  He  called  it  memory." 

"Possibly,"  said  Ericssen  briefly.  "My  mind  is  not 
speculative.  But  I'm  glad  you  spoke  of  fear.  I  left  that 
out.  The  truth  is,  I  feared  the  fellow,  too,  in  a  way ; 
and  had  we  ever  met  face  to  face  in  some  wild  country 
without  witnesses  I  should  have  felt  justified  in  drawing 
on  him  at  sight,  and  he  would  have  felt  the  same.  Murder? 
If  you  like.  I  should  call  it  self-defence.  Anyhow,  the 
fellow  polluted  the  room  for  me.  He  spoilt  the  enjoy- 
ment of  that  dinner  we  had  ordered  months  before  in 
China." 

"But  you  saw  him  again,  of  course,  later?  " 

"Lots  of  times.  Not  that  night,  because  we  went 
on  to  a  theatre.  But  in  the  club  we  were  always  running 
across  one  another — in  the  houses  of  friends  at  lunch  or 
dinner ;  at  race  meetings ;  all  over  the  place ;  in  fact,  I 
even  had  some  trouble  to  avoid  being  introduced  to  him. 
And  every  time  we  met  our  eyes  betrayed  us.  He  felt  in 
his  heart  what  I  felt  in  mine.  Ugh  !  He  was  as  loath- 
some to  me  as  leprosy,  and  as  dangerous.  Odd,  isn't 
it?  The  most  intense  feeling,  except  love,  I've  ever 
known.  I  remember" — he  laughed  gruffly — "I  used  to 
feel  quite  sorry  for  him.  If  he  felt  what  I  felt,  and  I'm 
convinced  he  did,  he  must  have  suffered.  His  one  object 
— to  get  me  out  of  the  way  for  good — was  so  impossible. 
Then  Fate  played  a  hand  in  the  game.  I'll  tell  you  how. 


First  Hate  81 

"My  brother  died  a  year  or  two  later,  and  I  went 
abroad  to  try  and  forget  it.  I  went  salmon  fishing"  in 
Canada.  But,  though  the  sport  was  good,  it  was  not 
like  the  old  times  with  Jack.  The  camp  never  felt  the 
same  without  him.  I  missed  him  badly.  But  I  forgot 
Hazel  for  the  time ;  hating  did  not  seem  worth  while, 
somehow. 

"  When  the  best  of  the  fishing  was  over  on  the  Atlantic 
side,  I  took  a  run  back  to  Vancouver  and  fished  there  for 
a  bit.  I  went  up  the  Campbell  River,  which  was  not  so 
crowded  then  as  it  is  now,  and  had  some  rattling  sport. 
Then  I  grew  tired  of  the  rod  and  decided  to  go  after 
wapiti  for  a  change.  I  came  back  to  Victoria  and  learned 
what  I  could  about  the  best  places,  and  decided  finally  to 
go  up  the  west  coast  of  the  island.  By  luck  I  happened 
to  pick  up  a  good  guide,  who  was  in  the  town  at  the 
moment  on  business,  and  we  started  off  together  in  one 
of  the  little  Canadian  Pacific  Railway  boats  that  ply  along 
that  coast. 

"Outfitting  two  days  later  at  a  small  place  the  steamer 
stopped  at,  the  guide  said  we  needed  another  man  to  help 
pack  our  kit  over  portages,  and  so  forth,  but  the  only 
fellow  available  was  a  Siwash  of  whom  he  disapproved. 
My  guide  would  not  have  him  at  any  price ;  he  was  lazy, 
a  drunkard,  a  liar,  and  even  worse,  for  on  one  occasion 
he  came  back  without  the  sportsman  he  had  taken  up 
country  on  a  shooting  trip,  and  his  story  was  not  con- 
vincing, to  say  the  least.  These  disappearances  are  always 
awkward,  of  course,  as  you  both  know.  We  preferred, 
anyhow,  to  go  without  the  Siwash,  and  off  we  started. 

"At  first  our  luck  was  bad.  I  saw  many  wapiti, 
but  no  good  heads ;  only  after  a  fortnight's  hunting  did 
I  manage  to  get  a  decent  head,  though  even  that  was 
not  so  good  as  I  should  have  liked. 

"We  were  then  near  the  head  waters  of  a  little  river 
that  ran  down  into  the  Inlet ;  heavy  rains  had  made  the 
river  rise;  running  downstream  was  a  risky  job,  what 


82  The  Wolves  of  God 

with  old  log-- jams  shifting  and  new  ones  forming;  and, 
after  many  narrow  escapes,  we  upset  one  afternoon  and 
had  the  misfortune  to  lose  a  lot  of  our  kit,  amongst  it 
most  of  our  cartridges.  We  could  only  muster  a  few  be- 
tween us.  The  guide  had  a  dozen ;  I  had  two — just 
enough,  we  considered,  to  take  us  out  all  right.  Still,  it 
was  an  infernal  nuisance.  We  camped  at  once  to  dry  out 
our  soaked  things  in  front  of  a  big  fire,  and  while  this 
laundry  work  was  going  on,  the  guide  suggested  my  filling 
in  the  time  by  taking  a  look  at  the  next  little  valley,  which 
ran  parallel  to  ours.  He  had  seen  some  good  heads  over 
there  a  few  weeks  ago.  Possibly  I  might  come  upon  the 
herd.  I  started  at  once,  taking  my  two  cartridges  with 
me. 

"It  was  the  devil  of  a  job  getting  over  the  divide,  for 
it  was  a  badly  bushed-up  place,  and  where  there  were  no 
bushes  there  were  boulders  and  fallen  trees,  and  the  going 
was  slow  and  tiring.  But  I  got  across  at  last  and  came 
out  upon  another  stream  at  the  bottom  of  the  new  valley. 
Signs  of  wapiti  were  plentiful,  though  I  never  came  up 
with  a  single  beast  all  the  afternoon.  Blacktail  deer  were 
everywhere,  but  the  wapiti  remained  invisible.  Provid- 
ence, or  whatever  you  like  to  call  that  fate  which  there  is 
no  escaping  in  our  lives,  made  me  save  my  two 
cartridges." 

Ericssen  stopped  a  minute  then.  It  was  not  to  light 
his  pipe  or  sip  his  whisky.  Nor  was  it  because  the  re- 
mainder of  his  story  failed  in  the  recollection  of  any  vivid 
detail.  He  paused  a  moment  to  think. 

"Tell  us  the  lot,"  pleaded  Lawson.  "Don't  leave  out 
anything." 

Ericssen  looked  up.  His  friend's  remark  had  helped 
him,  to  make  up  his  mind  apparently.  He  had  hesitated 
about  something  or  other,  but  the  hesitation  passed.  He 
glanced  at  both  his  listeners. 

"Right,"  he  said.  "I'll  tell  you  everything.  I'm  not 
imaginative,  as  you  know,  and  my  amount  of  superstition, 


First  Hate  83 

I  should  judge,  is  microscopic."  He  took  a  longer  breath, 
then  lowered  his  voice  a  trifle.  "Anyhow,"  he  went  on, 
"it's  true,  so  I  don't  see  why  I  should  feel  shy  about 
admitting  it — but  as  I  stood  there,  in  that  lonely  valley, 
where  only  the  noises  of  wind  and  water  were  audible, 
and  no  human  being,  except  my  guide,  some  miles  away, 
was  within  reach,  a  curious  feeling  came  over  me  I  find 
difficult  to  describe.  I  felt  " — obviously  he  made  an  effort 
to  get  the  word  out — "I  felt  creepy." 

"You,"  murmured  Lawson,  with  an  incredulous  smile 
— "you  creepy?  "  he  repeated  under  his  breath. 

"I  felt  creepy  and  afraid,"  continued  the  other,  with 
conviction.  "I  had  the  sensation  of  being  seen  by  some- 
one— as  if  someone,  I  mean,  was  watching  me.  It  was 
so  unlikely  that  anyone  was  near  me  in  that  god-forsaken 
bit  of  wilderness,  that  I  simply  couldn't  believe  it  at  first. 
But  the  feeling  persisted.  I  felt  absolutely  positive  some- 
body was  not  far  away  among  the  red  maples,  behind  a 
boulder,  across  the  little  stream,  perhaps,  somewhere,  at 
any  rate,  so  near  that  I  was  plainly  visible  to  him.  It  was 
not  an  animal.  It  was  human.  Also,  it  was  hostile. 

"  I  was  in  danger. 

"You  may  laugh,  both  of  you,  but  I  assure  you  the 
feeling  was  so  positive  that  I  crouched  down  instinctively 
to  hide  myself  behind  a  rock.  My  first  thought,  that  the 
guide  had  followed  me  for  some  reason  or  other,  I 
at  once  discarded.  It  was  not  the  guide.  It  was  an 
enemy. 

"  No,  no,  I  thought  of  no  one  in  particular.  No  name, 
no  face  occurred  to  me.  Merely  that  an  enemy  was  on  my 
trail,  that  he  saw  me,  and  I  did  not  see  him,  and  that  he 
was  near  enough  to  me  to — well,  to  take  instant  action. 
This  deep  instinctive  feeling  of  danger,  of  fear,  of  any- 
thing you  like  to  call  it,  was  simply  overwhelming. 

"Another  curious  detail  I  must  also  mention.  About 
half  an  hour  before,  having  given  up  all  hope  of  seeing 
wapiti,  I  had  decided  to  kill  a  blacktail  deer  for  meat. 


84  The  Wolves  of  God' 

A  good  shot  offered  itself,  not  thirty  yards  away.  I 
aimed.  But  just  as  I  was  going"  to  pull  the  trigger  a 
queer  emotion  touched  me,  and  I  lowered  the  rifle.  It  was 
exactly  as  though  a  voice  said,  '  Don't !  *  I  heard  no 
voice,  mind  you;  it  was  an  emotion  only,  a  feeling,  a 
sudden  inexplicable  change  of  mind — a  warning,  if  you 
like.  I  didn't  fire,  anyhow. 

"But  now,  as  I  crouched  behind  that  rock,  I  remem- 
bered this  curious  little  incident,  and  was  glad  I  had  not 
used  up  my  last  two  cartridges.  More  than  that  I  cannot 
tell  you.  Things  of  that  kind  are  new  to  me.  They're 
difficult  enough  to  tell,  let  alone  to  explain.  But  they  were 
real. 

"  I  crouched  there,  wondering  what  on  earth  was  hap- 
pening to  me,  and,  feeling  a  bit  of  a  fool,  if  you  want  to 
know,  when  suddenly,  over  the  top  of  the  boulder,  I  saw 
something  moving.  It  was  a  man's  hat.  I  peered 
cautiously.  Some  sixty  yards  away  the  bushes  parted, 
and  two  men  came  out  on  to  the  river's  bank,  and  I  knew 
them  both.  One  was  the  Si  wash  I  had  seen  at  the  store. 
The  other  was  Hazel.  Before  I  had  time  to  think  I  cocked 
my  rifle." 

"  Hazel.     Good  Lord  !  "  exclaimed  the  listeners. 

"  For  a  moment  I  was  too  surprised  to  do  anything  but 
cock  that  rifle.  I  waited,  for  what  puzzled  me  was  that, 
alter  all,  Hazel  had  not  seen  me.  It  was  only  the  feeling 
of  his  beastly  proximity  that  had  made  me  feel  I  was  seen 
and  watched  by  him.  There  was  something  else,  too, 
that  made  me  pause  before — er — doing  anything.  Two 
other  things,  in  fact.  One  was  that  I  was  so  intensely 
interested  in  watching  the  fellow's  actions.  Obviously  he 
had  the  same  uneasy  sensation  that  I  had.  He  shared 
with  me  the  nasty  feeling  that  danger  was  about.  His 
rifle,  I  saw,  was  cocked  and  ready ;  he  kept  looking  behind 
him,  over  his  shoulder,  peering  this  way  and  that,  and 
sometimes  addressing  a  remark  to  the  Siwash  at  his  side. 
I  caught  the  laughter  of  the  latter.  The  Siwash  evidently 


First  Hate  85 

did  not  think  there  was  danger  anywhere.  It  was,  of 
course,  unlikely  enough " 

"And  the  other  thing  that  stopped  you?  "  urged  Law- 
son,  impatiently  interrupting. 

Ericssen  turned  with  a  look  of  grim  humour  on  his 
face. 

"  Some  confounded  or  perverted  sense  of  chivalry  in 
me,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  made  it  impossible  to 
shoot  him  down  in  cold  blood,  or,  rather,  without  letting 
him  have  a  chance.  For  my  blood,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
was  far  from  cold  at  the  moment.  Perhaps,  too,  I  wanted 
the  added  satisfaction  of  letting  him  know  who  fired  the 
shot  that  was  to  end  his  vile  existence." 

He  laughed  again.  "It  was  rat  and  ferret  in  the 
human  kingdom,"  he  went  on,  "but  I  wanted  my  rat  to 
have  a  chance,  I  suppose.  Anyhow,  though  I  had  a  per- 
fect shot  in  front  of  me  at  easy  distance,  I  did  not  fire. 
Instead  I  got  up,  holding  my  cocked  rifle  ready,  finger 
on  trigger,  and  came  out  of  my  hiding  place.  I  called  to 
him.  '  Hazel,  you  beast !  So  there  you  are — at  last ! ' 

"He  turned,  but  turned  away  from  me,  offering  his 
horrid  back.  The  direction  of  the  voice  he  misjudged. 
He  pointed  down  stream,  and  the  Siwash  turned  to  look. 
Neither  of  them  had  seen  me  yet.  There  was  a  big  log- 
jam below  them.  The  roar  of  the  water  in  their  ears 
concealed  my  footsteps.  I  was,  perhaps,  twenty  paces 
from  them  when  Hazel,  with  a  jerk  of  his  whole  body, 
abruptly  turned  clean  round  and  faced  me.  We  stared 
into  each  other's  eyes. 

"The  amazement  on  his  face  changed  instantly  to 
hatred  and  resolve.  He  acted  with  incredible  rapidity. 
I  think  the  unexpected  suddenness  of  his  turn  made  me 
lose  a  precious  second  or  two.  Anyhow  he  was  ahead  of 
me.  He  flung  his  rifle  to  his  shoulder.  '  You  devil !  '  I 
heard  his  voice.  *  I  've  got  you  at  last !  '  His  rifle 
cracked,  for  he  let  drive  the  same  instant.  The  hair 
stirred  just  above  my  ear. 


86  The  Wolves  of  God 

"  He  had  missed  ! 

"  Before  he  could  draw  back  his  bolt  for  another  shot 
I  had  acted. 

"'  You're  not  fit  to  live!'  I  shouted,  as  my  bullet 
crashed  into  his  temple.  I  had  the  satisfaction,  too, 
of  knowing-  that  he  heard  my  words.  I  saw  the  swift 
expression  of  frustrated  loathing  in  his  eyes. 

"  He  fell  like  an  ox,  his  face  splashing-  in  the  stream. 
I  shoved  the  body  out.  I  saw  it  sucked  beneath  the  log- 
jam instantly.  It  disappeared.  There  could  be  no  inquest 
on  him,  I  reflected  comfortably.  Hazel  was  gone — gone 
from  this  earth,  from  my  life,  our  mutual  hatred  over  at 
last." 

The  speaker  paused  a  moment.  "Odd,"  he  continued 
presently — "very  odd  indeed."  He  turned  to  the  others. 
"I  felt  quite  sorry  for  him  suddenly.  I  suppose,"  he 
added,  "the  philosophers  are  right  when  they  gas  about 
hate  being  very  close  to  love." 

His  friends  contributed  no  remark. 

"Then  I  came  away,"  he  resumed  shortly.  "My  wife 
— well,  you  know  the  rest,  don't  you?  I  told  her  the  whole 
thing.  She — she  said  nothing.  But  she  married  me,  you 
see." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Baynes  was  the  first 
to  break  it.  "  But— the  Siwash?  "  he  asked.  "The 
witness?  " 

Lawson  turned  upon  him  with  something  of  con- 
temptuous impatience. 

"He  told  you  he  had  two  cartridges." 

Ericssen,  smiling  grimly,  said  nothing  at  all. 


V 

THE  TARN  OF  SACRIFICE 

JOHN  HOLT,  a  vague  excitement  in  him,  stood  at  the  door 
of  the  little  inn,  listening  to  the  landlord's  directions  as 
to  the  best  way  of  reaching  Scarsdale.  He  was  on  a 
walking  tour  through  the  Lake  District,  exploring  the 
smaller  dales  that  lie  away  from  the  beaten  track  and  are 
accessible  only  on  foot. 

The  landlord,  a  hard-featured  north  countryman,  half 
innkeeper,  half  sheep  farmer,  pointed  up  the  valley.  His 
deep  voice  had  a  friendly  burr  in  it. 

"You  go  straight  on  till  you  reach  the  head,"  he 
said,  "then  take  to  the  fell.  Follow  the  *  sheep-trod  '  past 
the  Crag.  Directly  you're  over  the  top  you'll  strike  the 
road." 

"A  road  up  there!  "  exclaimed  his  customer  incredu- 
lously. 

"Aye,"  was  the  steady  reply.  "The  old  Roman  road. 
The  same  road,"  he  added,  "the  savages  came  down 
when  they  burst  through  the  Wall  and  burnt  everything 
right  up  to  Lancaster " 

"They  were  held — weren't  they — at  Lancaster?  " 
asked  the  other,  yet  not  knowing  quite  why  he  asked  it.. 

"I  don't  rightly  know,"  came  the  answer  slowly. 
"Some  say  they  were.  But  the  old  town  has  been  that 
built  over  since,  it's  hard  to  tell."  He  paused  a  moment. 
"At  Ambleside,"  he  went  on  presently,  "you  can  still  see 
-the  marks  of  the  burning,  and  at  the  little  fort  on  the 
way  to  Ravenglass." 

Holt  s'trained  his  eyes  into  the  sunlit  distance,  for  he 
87 


88  The  Wolves  of  God 

would  soon  have  to  walk  that  road  and  he  was  anxious  to 
be  off.  But  the  landlord  was  communicative  and  inter- 
esting*. "You  can't  miss  it,"  he  told  him.  "It  runs 
straight  as  a  spear  along  the  fell  top  till  it  meets  the  Wall. 
You  must  hold  to  it  for  about  eight  miles.  Then  you'll 

come  to  the  Standing  Stone  on  the  left  of  the  track " 

"The  Standing  Stone,  yes?  "  broke  in  the  other  a  little 
eagerly. 

"You'll  see  the  Stone  right  enough.  It  was  where  the 
Romans  came.  Then  bear  to  the  left  down  another 
'  trod  '  that  comes  into  the  road  there.  They  say  it  was 
the  war-trail  of  the  folk  that  set  up  the  Stone." 

"And  what  did  they  use  the  Stone  for?  "  Holt  inquired, 
more  as  though  he  asked  it  of  himself  than  of  his  com- 
panion. 

The  old  man  paused  to  reflect.  He  spoke  at  length. 
"I  mind  an  old  fellow  who  seemed  to  know  about  such 
things  called  it  a  Sighting  Stone.  He  reckoned  the  sun 
shone  over  it  at  dawn  on  the  longest  day  right  on  to  the 
little  holm  in  Blood  Tarn.  He  said  they  held  sacrifices  in 
a  stone  circle  there."  He  stopped  a  moment  to  puff  at  his 
black  pipe.  "Maybe  he  was  right.  I  have  seen  stones 
lying  about  that  may  well  be  that." 

The  man  was  pleased  and  willing  to  talk  to  so  good 
a  listener.  Either  he  had  not  noticed  the  curious  gesture 
the  other  made,  or  he  read  it  as  a  sign  of  eagerness  to 
start.  The  sun  was  warm,  but  a  sharp  wind  from  the 
bare  hills  went  between  them  with  a  sighing  sound.  Holt 
buttoned  his  coat  about  him.  "An  odd  name  for  a  moun- 
tain lake — Blood  Tarn,"  he  remarked,  watching  the 
landlord's  face  expectantly. 

"Aye,  but  a  good  one,"  was  the  measured  reply. 
"When  I  was  a  boy  the  old  folk  had  a  tale  that  the 
savages  flung  three  Roman  captives  from  that  crag  into 
the  water.  There's  a  book  been  written  about  it ;  they 
say  it  was  a  sacrifice,  but  most  likely  they  were  tired  of 
dragging  them  along,  /  say.  Anyway,  that's  what  the 


The  Tarn  of  Sacrifice  89 

writer  said.  One,  I  mind,  now  you  ask  me,  was  a  priest 
of  some  heathen  temple  that  stood  near  the  Wall,  and 
the  other  two  were  his  daughter  and  her  lover."  He 
guffawed.  At  least  he  made  a  strange  noise  in  his  throat. 
Evidently,  thought  Holt,  he  was  sceptical  yet  supersti- 
tious. "It's  just  an  old  tale  handed  down,  whatever  the 
learned  folk  may  say,"  the  old  man  added. 

"A  lonely  place,"  began  Holt,  aware  that  a  fleeting 
touchi  of  awe  was  added  suddenly  to  his  interest. 

"Aye,"  said  the  other,  "and  a  bad  spot  too.  Every 
year  the  Crag  takes  its  toll  of  sheep,  and  sometimes  a  man 
goes  over  in  the  mist.  It's  right  beside  the  track  and 
very  slippery.  Ninety  foot  of  a  drop  before  you  hit  the 
water.  Best  keep  round  the  tarn  and  leave  the  Crag 
alone  if  there's  any  mist  about.  Fishing?  Yes,  there's 
some  quite  fair  trout  in  the  tarn,  but  it's  not  much  fished. 
Happen  one  of  the  shepherd  lads  from  Tyson's  farm  may 
give  it  a  turn  with  an  '  otter,'  "  he  went  on,  "once  in  a 
while,  but  he  won't  stay  for  the  evening.  He'll  clear  out 
before  sunset." 

"Ah!     Superstitious,  I  suppose?" 

"It's  a  gloomy,  chancy  spot — and  with  the  dusk  fall- 
ings" agreed  the  innkeeper  eventually.  "None  of  our 
folk  care  to  be  caught  up  there  with  night  coming  on. 
Most  handy  for  a  shepherd,  too — but  Tyson  can't  get  a 
man  to  bide  there."  He  paused  again,  then  added  sig- 
nificantly :  "Strangers  don't  seem  to  mind  it  though.  It's 
only  our  own  folk " 

"  Strangers  !  "  repeated  the  other  sharply,  as  though 
he  had  been  waiting  all  along  for  this  special  bit  of 
information.  "You  don't  mean  to  say  there  are 
people  living  up  there?"  A  curious  thrill  ran  over 
him. 

"Aye,"  replied  the  landlord,  "but  they're  daft  folk— 

a  man  and  his  daughter.     They  come  every  spring.     It's 

early  in  the  year  yet,  but  I  mind  Jim  Backhouse,  one  of 

Tyson's    men,    talking    about    them    last    week."      He 

G 


go    .         The  Wolves  of  God 

stopped  to  think.     "So  they've  come  back,"  he  went  on 
decidedly.     "They  get  milk  from  the  farm." 

"And  what  on  earth  are  they  doing  up  there?  "  Holt 
asked. 

He  asked  many  other  questions  as  well,  but  the 
answers  were  poor,  the  information  not  forthcoming. 
The  landlord  would  talk  for  hours  about  the  Crag,  the 
tarn,  the  legends  and  the  Romans,  but  concerning  the 
two  strangers  he  was  uncommunicative.  Either  he  knew 
little,  or  he  did  not  want  to  discuss  them ;  Holt  felt  it 
was  probably  the  former.  They  were  educated  town- 
folk,  he  gathered  with  difficulty,  rich  apparently,  and 
they  spent  their  time  wandering  about  the  fell,  or  fishing. 
The  man  was  often  seen  upon  the  Crag,  his  girl  beside 
him,  bare-legged,  dressed  as  a  peasant.  "  Happen  they 
come  for  their  health,  happen  the  father  is  a  learned  man 
studying  the  Wall" — exact  information  was  not  forth- 
coming. 

The  landlord  "minded  his  own  business,"  and  inhabi- 
tants were  too  few  and  far  between  for  gossip.  All  Holt 
could  extract  amounted  to  this  :  the  couple  had  been  in  a 
motor  accident  some  years  before,  and  as  a  result  they 
came  every  spring  to  spend  a  month  or  two  in  absolute 
solitude,  away  from  cities  and  the  excitement  of  modern 
life.  They  troubled  no  one  and  no  one  troubled  them. 

"Perhaps  I  may  see  them  as  I  go  by  the  tarn,"  re- 
marked the  walker  finally,  making  ready  to  go.  He  gave 
up  questioning  in  despair.  The  morning  hours  were 
passing. 

"Happen  you  may,"  was  the  reply,  "for  your  track 
goes  past  their  door  and  leads  straight  down  to  Scars- 
dale.  The  other  way  over  the  crag  saves  half  a  mile,  but 
it's  rough  going  along  the  scree."  He  stopped  dead. 
Then  he  added,  in  reply  to  Holt's  good-bye:  "In  my 
opinion  it's  not  worth  it,"  yet  what  he  meant  exactly  by 
"  it  "  was  not  quite  clear. 

*  *  *  *  * 


The  Tarn  of  Sacrifice  91 

The  walker  shouldered  his  knapsack.  Instinctively  he 
gave  the  little  hitch  to  settle  it  on  his  shoulders — much 
as  he  used  to  give  to  his  pack  in  France.  The  pain  that 
shot  through  him  as  he  did  so  was  another  reminder  of 
France.  The  bullet  he  had  stopped  on  the  Somme  still 
made  its  presence  felt  at  times.  .  .  .  Yet  he  knew,  as 
he  walked  off  briskly,  that  he  was  one  of  the  lucky  ones. 
How  many  of  his  old  pals  would  never  walk  again,  con- 
demned to  hobble  on  crutches  for  the  rest  of  their  lives  ! 
How  many,  again,  would  never  even  hobble  !  More  ter- 
rible still,  he  remembered,  were  the  blind.  .  .  .  The  dead, 
it  seemed  to  him,  had  been  more  fortunate.  .  .  . 

He  swung  up  the  narrowing  valley  at  a  good  pace 
and  was  soon  climbing  the  fell.  It  proved  far  steeper 
than  it  had  appeared  from  the  door  of  the  inn,  and  he 
was  glad  enough  to  reach  the  top  and  fling  himself  down 
on  the  coarse  springy  turf  to  admire  the  view  below. 

The  spring  day  was  delicious.  It  stirred  his  blood. 
The  world  beneath  looked  young  and  stainless.  Emotion 
rose  through  him  in  a  wave  of  optimistic  happiness.  The 
bare  hills  were  half  hidden  by  a  soft  blue  haze  that  made 
them  look  bigger,  vaster,  less  earthly  than  they  really 
were.  He  saw  silver  streaks  in  the  valleys  that  he  knew 
were  distant  streams  and  lakes.  Birds  soared  between. 
The  dazzling  air  seemed  painted  with  exhilarating  light 
and  colour.  The  very  clouds  were  floating  gossamer  that 
he  could  touch.  There  were  bees  and  dragon-flies  and 
fluttering  thistle-down.  Heat  vibrated.  His  body,  his 
physical  sensations,  so-called,  retired  into  almost  nothing. 
He  felt  himself,  like  his  surroundings,  made  of  air  and 
sunlight.  A  delicious  sense  of  resignation  poured  upon 
him.  He,  too,  like  his  surroundings,  was  composed  of 
air  and  sunshine,  of  insect  wings,  of  soft,  fluttering  vibra- 
tions that  the  gorgeous  spring  day  produced.  ...  It 
seemed  that  he  renounced  the  heavy  dues  of  bodily  life, 
and  enjoyed  the  delights,  momentarily  at  any  rate,  of  a 
more  ethereal  consciousness. 


92  The  Wolves  of  God 

Near  at  hand,  the  hills  were  covered  with  the  faded 
gold  of  last  year's  bracken,  which  ran  down  in  a  brimming 
flood  till  it  was  lost  in  the  fresh  green  of  the  familiar 
woods  below.  Far  in  the  hazy  distance  swam  the  sea  of 
ash  and  hazel.  The  silver  birch  sprinkled  that  lower 
world  with  fairy  light. 

Yes,  it  was  all  natural  enough.  .  He  could  see  the  road 
quite  clearly  now,  only  a  hundred  yards  away  from  where 
he  lay.  How  straight  it  ran  along  the  top  of  the  hill ! 
The  landlord's  expression  recurred  to  him  :  "Straight  as 
a  spear."  Somehow,  the  phrase  seemed  to  describe 
exactly  the  Romans  and  all  their  works.  .  .  .  The 
Romans,  yes,  and  all  their  works.  .  .  . 

He  became  aware  of  a  sudden  sympathy  with  these 
long  dead  conquerors  of  the  world.  With  them,  he  felt 
sure,  there  had  been  no  useless,  foolish  talk.  They  had 
known  no  empty  words,  no  bandying  of  foolish  phrases. 
"War  to  end  war,"  and  "Regeneration  of  the  race" — 
no  hypocritical  nonsense  of  that  sort  had  troubled  their 
minds  and  purposes.  They  had  not  attempted  to  cover 
up  the  horrible  in  words.  With  them  had  been  no 
childish,  vain  pretence.  They  had  gone  straight  to  their 
ends. 

Other  thoughts,  too,  stole  over  him,  as  he  sat  gazing 
down  upon  the  track  of  that  ancient  road ;  strange 
thoughts,  not  wholly  welcome.  New,  yet  old,  emotions 
rose  in  a  tide  upon  him.  He  began  to  wonder.  .  .  .  Had 
he,  after  all,  become  brutalized  by  the  War?  He  knew 
quite  well  that  the  little  "Christianity  "  he  inherited  had 
soon  fallen  from  him  like  a  garment  in  France.  In  his 
attitude  to  Life  and  Death  he  had  become,  frankly,  pagan. 
He  now  realized,  abruptly,  another  thing  as  well  :  in 
reality  he  had  never  been  a  "  Christian  "  at  any  time. 
Given  to  him  with  his  mother's  milk,  he  had  never 
accepted,  felt  at  home  with  Christian  dogmas.  To  him 
they  had  always  been  an  alien  creed.  Christianity  met 
none  of  his  requirements.  ..." 


The  Tarn  of  Sacrifice  93 

But  what  were  his  "requirements"?  He  found  it 
difficult  to  answer. 

Something,  at  any  rate,  different  and  more  primitive, 
he  thought.  .  .  . 

Even  up  here,  alone  on  the  mountain-top,  it  was  hard 
to  be  absolutely  frank  with  himself.  With  a  kind  of 
savage,  honest  determination,  he  bent  himself  to  the  task. 
It  became  suddenly  important  for  him.  He  must  know 
exactly  where  he  stood.  It  seemed  he  had  reached  a 
turning  point  in  his  life.  The  War,  in  the  objective  world, 
had  been  one  such  turning  point ;  now  he  had  reached 
another,  in  the  subjective  life,  and  it  was  more  important 
than  the  first. 

As  he  lay  there  in  the  pleasant  sunshine,  his  thoughts 
went  back  to  the  fighting,  A  friend,  he  recalled,  had 
divided  people  into  those  who  enjoyed  the  War  and  those 
who  didn't.  He  was  obliged  to  admit  that  he  had  been 
one  of  the  former — he  had  thoroughly  enjoyed  it.  Brought 
up  from  a  youth  as  an  engineer,  he  had  taken  to  a  soldier's 
life  as  a  duck  takes  to  water.  There  had  been  plenty  of 
misery,  discomfort,  wretchedness ;  but  there  had  been 
compensations  that,  for  him,  outweighed  them.  The  fierce 
excitement,  the  primitive,  naked  passions,  the  wild  fury, 
the  reckless  indifference  to  pain  and  death,  with  the  loss 
of  the  normal,  cautious,  pettifogging  little  daily  self  all 
these  involved,  had  satisfied  him.  Even  the  actual 
killing  .  .  . 

He  started.  A  slight  shudder  ran  down  his  back  as 
the  cool  wind  from  the  open  moorlands  came  sighing 
across  the  soft  spring  sunshine.  Sitting  up  straight,  he 
looked  behind  him  a  moment,  as  with  an  effort  to  turn 
away  from  something  he  disliked  and  dreaded  because  it 
was,  he  knew,  too  strong  for  him.  But  the  same  instant 
he  turned  round  again.  He  faced  the  vile  and  dreadful 
thing  in  himself  he  had  hitherto  sought  to  deny,  evade. 
Pretence  fell  away.  He  could  not  disguise  from  himself, 
that  he  had  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  killing ;  or,  at  any 


94  The  Wolves  of  God 

rate,  had  not  been  shocked  by  it  as  by  an  unnatural  and 
ghastly  duty.  The  shooting  and  bombing  he  performed 
with  an  effort  always,  but  the  rarer  moments  when  he 
had  been  able  to  use  the  bayonet  .  .  .  the  joy  of  feeling 
the  steel  go  home  .  .  . 

He  started  again,  hiding  his  face  a  moment  in  his 
hands,  but  he  did  not  try  to  evade  the  hideous  memories 
that  surged.  At  times,  he  knew,  he  had  gone  quite 
mad  with  the  lust  of  slaughter;  he  had  gone  on  long 
after  he  should  have  stopped.  Once  an  officer  had  pulled 
him  up  sharply  for  it,  but  the  next  instant  had  been  killed 
by  a  bullet.  He  thought  he  had  gone  on  killing,  but  he 
did  not  know.  It  was  all  a  red  mist  before  his  eyes  and  he 
could  only  remember  the  sticky  feeling  of  the  blood  on 
his  hands  when  he  gripped  his  rifle.  .  .  . 

And  now,  at  this  moment  of  painful  honesty  with  him- 
self, he  realized  that  his  creed,  whatever  it  was,  must 
cover  all  that ;  it  must  provide  some  sort  of  a  philosophy 
for  it ;  must  neither  apologize  nor  ignore  it.  The  heaven 
that  it  promised  must  be  a  man's  heaven.  The  Christian 
heaven  made  no  appeal  to  him,  he  could  not  believe  in 
it.  The  ritual  must  be  simple  and  direct.  He  felt  that  in 
some  dim  way  he  understood  why  those  old  people  had 
thrown  their  captives  from  the  Crag.  The  sacrifice  of  an 
animal  victim  that  could  be  eaten  afterwards  with  due 
ceremonial  did  not  shock  him.  Such  methods  seemed 
simple,  natural,  effective.  Yet  would  it  not  have  been 
better — the  horrid  thought  rose  unbidden  in  his  inmost 
mind — better  to  have  cut  their  throats  with  a  flint  knife 
.  .  .  slowly? 

Horror-stricken,  he  sprang  to  his  feet.  These  terrible 
thoughts  he  could  not  recognize  as  his  own.  Had  he  slept 
a  moment  in  the  sunlight,  dreaming  them?  Was  it  some 
hideous  nightmare  flash  that  touched  him  as  he  dozed  a 
second?  Something  of  fear  and  awe  stole  over  him.  He 
stared  round  for  some  minutes  into  the  emptiness  of  the 
desolate  landscape,  then  hurriedly  ran  down  to  the  road, 


The  Tarn  of  Sacrifice  95 

hoping  to  exorcize  the  strange  sudden  horror  by  vigorous 
movement.  Yet  when  he  reached  the  track  he  knew  that 
he  had  not  succeeded.  The  awful  pictures  were  gone 
perhaps,  but  the  mood  remained.  It  was  as  though  some 
new  attitude  began  to  take  definite  form  and  harden  within 
him. 

He  walked  on,  trying  to  pretend  to  himself  that  he 
was  some  forgotten  legionary  marching  up  with  his 
fellows  to  defend  the  Wall.  Half  unconsciously  he  fell 
into  the  steady  tramping  pace  of  his  old  regiment :  the 
words  of  the  ribald  songs  they  had  sung  going  to  the 
front  came  pouring  into  his  mind.  Steadily  and  almost 
mechanically  he  swung  along  till  he  saw  the  Stone  as 
a  black  speck  on  the  left  of  the  track,  and  the  instant 
he  saw  it  there  rose  in  him  the  feeling  that  he  stood  upon 
the  edge  of  an  adventure  that  he  feared  yet  longed  for. 
He  approached  the  great  granite  monolith  with  a  curious 
thrill  of  anticipatory  excitement,  born  he  knew  not 
whence. 

But,  of  course,  there  was  nothing.  Common  sense, 
still  operating  strongly,  had  warned  him  there  would 
be,  could  be,  nothing.  In  the  waste  the  great  Stone  stood 
upright,  solitary,  forbidding,  as  it  had  stood  for  thou- 
sands of  years.  It  dominated  the  landscape  somewhat 
ominously.  The  sheep  and  cattle  had  used  it  as  a  rubbing- 
stone,  and  bits  of  hair  and  wool  clung  to  its  rough, 
weather-eaten  edges ;  the  feet  of  generations  had  worn  a 
cup-shaped  hollow  at  its  base.  The  wind  sighed  round 
it  plaintively.  Its  bulk  glistened  as  it  took  the  sun. 

A  short  mile  away  the  Blood  Tarn  was  now  plainly 
visible;  he  could  see  the  little  holm  lying  in  a  direct 
line  with  the  Stone,  while,  overhanging  the  water  as  a 
dark  shadow  on  one  side,  rose  the  cliff-like  rock  they 
called  "the  Crag."  Of  the  house  the  landlord  had 
mentioned,  however,  he  could  see  no  trace,  as  he  relieved 
his  shoulders  of  the  knapsack  and  sat  down  to  enjoy  his 
lunch.  The  tarn,  he  reflected,  was  certainly  a  gloomy 


96  The  Wolves  of  God 

place ;  he  could  understand  that  the  simple  superstitious 
shepherds  did  not  dare  to  live  there,  for  even  on  this 
bright  spring  day  it  wore  a  dismal  and  forbidding  look. 
With  failing  light,  when  the  Crag  sprawled  its  big 
lengthening  shadow  across  the  water,  he  could  well 
imagine  they  would  give  it  the  widest  possible  berth. 
He  strolled  down  to  the  shore  after  lunch,  smoking  his 
pipe  lazily — then  suddenly  stood  still.  At  the  far  end, 
hidden  hitherto  by  a  fold  in  the  ground,  he  saw  the  little 
house,  a  faint  column  of  blue  smoke  rising  from  the 
chimney,  .and  at  the  same  moment  a  woman  came  out 
of  the  low  door  and  began  to  walk  towards  the  tarn. 
She  had  seen  him,  she  was  moving  evidently  in  his 
direction ;  a  few  minutes  later  she  stopped  and  stood 
waiting  on  the  path — waiting,  he  well  knew,  for  him. 

And  his  earlier  mood,  the  mood  he  dreaded  yet  had 
forced  himself  to  recognize,  came  back  upon  him  with 
sudden  redoubled  power.  As  in  some  vivid  dream  that 
dominates  and  paralyses  the  will,  or  as  in  the  first  stages 
of  an  imposed  hypnotic  spell,  all  question,  hesitation, 
refusal  sank  away.  He  felt  a  pleasurable  resignation 
steal  upon  him  with  soft,  numbing  effect.  Denial  and 
criticism  ceased  to  operate,  and  common  sense  died  with 
them.  He  yielded  his  being  automatically  to  the  deeps 
of  an  adventure  he  did  not  understand.  He  began  to  walk 
towards  tfie  woman. 

It  was,  he  saw  as  he  drew  nearer,  the  figure  of  a 
young  girl,  nineteen  or  twenty  years  of  age,  who  stood 
there  motionless  with  her  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  his  own. 
She  looked  as  wild  and  picturesque  as  the  scene  that 
framed  her.  Thick  black  hair  hung  loose  over  her  back 
and  shoulders ;  about  her  head  was  bound  a  green  ribbon ; 
her  clothes  consisted  of  a  jersey  and  a  very  short  skirt 
which  showed  her  bare  legs  browned  by  exposure  to  the 
sun  and  wind.  A  pair  of  rough  sandals  covered  her  feet. 
Whether  the  face  was  beautiful  or  not  he  could  not  tell ; 
he  only  knew  that  it  attracted  him  immensely  and  with 


The  Tarn  of  Sacrifice  97 

a  strength  of  appeal  that  he  at  once  felt  curiously 
irresistible.  She  remained  motionless  against  the  boulder, 
staring-  fixedly  at  him  till  he  was  close  before  her.  Then 
she  spoke  : 

"I  am  glad  that  you  have  come  at  Last,"  she  said 
in  a  clear,  strong  voice  that  yet  was  soft  and  even 
tender.  "We  have  been  expecting  you." 

"You  have  been  expecting  me!"  he  repeated, 
astonished  beyond  words,  yet  finding  the  language 
natural,  right  and  true.  A  stream  of  sweet  feeling  in- 
vaded him,  his  heart  beat  faster,  he  felt  happy  and  at 
home  in  some  extraordinary  way  he  could  not  understand 
yet  did  not  question. 

"Of  course,"  she  answered,  looking  straight  into  his 
eyes  with  welcome  unashamed.  Her  next  words  thrilled 
him  to  the  core  of  his  being.  "  I  have  made  the  room 
ready  for  you." 

Quick  upon  her  own,  however,  flashed  back  the  land- 
lord's words,  while  common  sense  made  a  last  faint  effort 
in  his  thought.  He  was  the  victim  of  some  absurd  mis- 
take evidently.  The  lonely  life,  the  forbidding  surround- 
ings, the  associations  of  the  desolate  hills  had  affected 
her  mind.  He  remembered  the  accident. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  offered,  lamely  enough,  "there  is 
some  mistake.  I  am  not  the  friend  you  were  expecting. 

I "     He  stopped.     A  thin  slight  sound  as  of  distant 

laughter  seemed  to  echo  behind  the  unconvincing  words. 

"There  is  no  mistake,"  the  girl  answered  firmly,  with 
a  quiet  smile,  moving  a  step  nearer  to  him,  so  that  he 
caught  the  subtle  perfume  of  her  vigorous  youth.  "I 
saw  you  clearly  in  the  Mystery  Stone.  I  recognized 
you  at  once." 

"The  Mystery  Stone,"  he  heard  himself  saying, 
bewilderment  increasing,  a  .sense  of  wild  happiness  grow- 
ing with  it. 

Laughing,  she  took  his  hand  in  hers.  "Come,"  she 
said,  drawing  him  along  with  her,  "come  home  with 


g8  The  Wolves  of  God 

me.  My  father  will  be  waiting"  for  us;  he  will  tell  you 
everything,  and  better  far  than  I  can." 

He  went  with  her,  feeling-  that  he  was  made  of  sun- 
light and  that  he  walked  on  air,  for  at  her  touch  his 
own  hand  responded  as  with  a  sudden  fierceness  of 
pleasure  that  he  failed  utterly  to  understand,  yet  did 
not  question  for  an  instant.  Wildly,  absurdly,  madly  it 
flashed  across  his  mind:  "This  is  the  woman  I  shall 
marry — my  woman.  I  am  her  man." 

They  walked  in  silence  for  a  little,  for  no  words  of 
any  sort  offered  themselves  to  his  mind,  nor  did  the  girl 
attempt  to  speak.  The  total  absence  of  embarrassment 
between  them  occurred  to  him  once  or  twice  as  curious, 
though  the  very  idea  of  embarrassment  then  disappeared 
entirely.  It  all  seemed  natural  and  unforced,  the  sudden 
intercourse  as  familiar  and  effortless  as  though  they  had 
known  one  another  always. 

"The  Mystery  Stone,"  he  heard  himself  saying 
presently,  as  the  idea  rose  again  to  the  surface  of  his 
mind.  "I  should  like  to  know  more  about  it.  Tell  me, 
dear." 

"I  bought  it  with  the  other  things,"  she  replied  softly. 

"What  other  things?" 

She  turned  and  looked  up  into  his  face  with  a  slight 
expression  of  surprise ;  their  shoulders  touched  as  they 
swung  along ;  her  hair  blew  in  the  wind  across  his  coat. 
"The  bronze  collar,"  she  answered  in  the  low  voice  that 
pleased  him  so,  "and  this  ornament  that  I  wear  in  my 
hair." 

He  glanced  down  to  examine  it.  Instead  of  a  ribbon, 
as  he  had  first  supposed,  he  saw  that  it  was  a  circlet 
of  bronze,  covered  with  a  beautiful  green  patina  and 
evidently  very  old.  In  front,  above  the  forehead,  was  a 
small  disk  bearing  an  inscription  he  could  not  decipher 
at  the  moment.  He  bent  down  and  kissed  her  hair,  the 
girl  smiling  with  happy  contentment,  but  offering  no 
sign  of  resistance  or  annoyance. 


The  Tarn  of  Sacrifice  99 

"And,"  she  added  suddenly,  "the  dagger." 

Holt  started  visibly.  This  time  there  was  a  thrill  in 
her  voice  that  seemed  to  pierce  down  straight  into  his 
heart.  He  said  nothing,  however.  The  unexpectedness 
of  the  word  she  used,  together  with  the  note  in  her 
voice  that  moved  him  so  strangely,  had  a  disconcerting 
effect  that  kept  him  silent  for  a  time.  He  did  not  ask 
about  the  dagger.  Something  prevented  his  curiosity 
finding  expression  in  speech,  though  the  word,  with  the 
marked  accent  she  placed  upon  it,  had  struck  into  him 
like  the  shock  of  sudden  steel  itself,  causing  him  an 
indecipherable  emotion  of  both  joy  and  pain.  He  asked 
instead,  presently,  another  question,  and  a  very  common- 
place one  :  he  asked  where  she  and  her  father  had  lived 
before  they  came  to  these  lonely  hills.  And  the  form  of 
his  question — his  voice  shook  a  little  as  he  said  it — 
was,  again,  an  effort  of  his  normal  self  to  maintain  its 
already  precarious  balance. 

The  effect  of  his  simple  query,  the  girl's  reply  above 
all,  increased  in  him  the  mingled  sensations  of  sweetness 
and  menace,  of  joy  and  dread,  that  half  alarmed,  half 
satisfied  him.  For  a  moment  she  wore  a  puzzled  ex- 
pression, as  though  making  an  effort  to  remember. 

"Down  by  the  sea,"  she  answered  slowly,  thought- 
fully, her  voice  Very  low.  "  Somewhere  by  a  big  harbour 
with  great  ships  coming  in  and  out.  It  was  there  we 
had  the  break — the  shock — an  accident  that  broke  us, 
shattering  the  dream  we  share  To-day."  Her  face  cleared 
a  little.  "We  were  in  a  chariot,"  she  went  on  more 
easily  and  rapidly,  "and  father — my  father  was  injured, 
so  that  I  went  with  him  to  a  palace  beyond  the  Wall  till 
he  grew  well." 

"You  were  in  a  chariot?"  Holt  repeated.  "Surely 
not." 

"Did  I  say  chariot?  "  the  girl  replied.  "How  foolish 
of  me  !  "  She  shook  her  hair  back  as  though  the  gesture 
helped  to  clear  her  mind  and  memory.  "That  belongs, 


ioo  The  Wolves  of  God 

of  course,  to  the  other  dream.  No,  not  a  chariot;  it 
was  a  car.  But  it  had  wheels  like  a  chariot — the  old 
war-chariots.  You  know." 

"Disk-wheels,"  thought  Holt  to  himself.  He  did  not 
ask  about  the  palace.  He  asked  instead  where  she  had 
bought  the  Mystery  Stone,  as  she  called  it,  and  the  other 
things.  Her  reply  bemused  and  enticed  him  farther, 
for  he  could  not  unravel  it.  His  whole  inner  attitude 
was  shifting  with  uncanny  rapidity  and  completeness. 
They  walked  together,  he  now  realized,  with  linked  arms, 
moving  slowly  in  step,  their  bodies  touching.  He  felt 
the  blood  run  hot  and  almost  savage  in  his  veins.  He 
was  aware  how  amazingly  precious  she  was  to  him,  how 
deeply,  absolutely  necessary  to  his  life  and  happiness. 
Her  words  went  past  him  in  the  mountain  wind  like 
flying  birds. 

"My  father  was  fishing,"  she  went  on,  "and  I  was 
on  my  way  to  join  him,  when  the  old  woman  called  me 
into  her  dwelling  and  showed  me  the  things.  She  wished 
to  give  them  to  me,  but  I  refused  the  present  and  paid 
for  them  in  gold.  I  put  the  fillet  on  my  head  to  see  if 
it  would  fit,  and  took  the  Mystery  Stone  in  my  hand. 
Then,  as  I  looked  deep  into  the  stone,  this  present  dream 
died  all  away.  It  faded  out.  I  saw  the  older  dreams 
again — our  dreams." 

"The  older  dreams!"  interrupted  Holt.  "Ours!" 
But  instead  of  saying  the  words  aloud,  they  issued  from 
his  lips  in  a  quiet  whisper,  as  though  control  of  his  voice 
had  passed  a  little  from  him.  The  sweetness  in  him 
became  more  wonderful,  unmanageable ;  his  astonishment 
had  vanished ;  he  walked  and  talked  with  his  old  familiar 
happy  Love,  the  woman  he  had  sought  so  long  and 
waited  for,  the  woman  who  was  his  mate,  as  he  was 
hers,  she  who  alone  could  satisfy  his  inmost  soul. 

"The  old  dream,"  she  replied,  "the  very  old — the 
oldest  of  all  perhaps — when  we  committed  the  terrible 
sacrilege.  I  saw  the  High  Priest  lying  dead — whom  my 


The  Tarn  of  Sacrifice, 


father  slew  —  and  the  other  whom  you  destroyed.  I  saw 
you  prise  out  the  jewel  from  the  image  of  the  god  — 
with  your  short  bloody  spear.  I  saw,  too,  our  flight  to 
the  galley  through  the  hot,  awful  night  beneath  the  stars  — 
and  our  escape.  ..." 

Her  voice  died  away  and  she  fell  silent. 
"Tell  me  more,"  he  whispered,  drawing  her  closer 
against  his  side.  "What  had  you  done?"  His  heart 
was  racing  now.  Some  fighting  blood  surged  uppermost. 
He  felt  that  he  could  kill,  and  the  joy  of  violence  and 
slaughter  rose  in  him. 

"Have  you  forgotten  so  completely?"  she  asked  very 
low,  as  he  pressed  her  more  tightly  still  against  his 
heart.  And  almost  beneath  her  breath  she  whispered  into 
his  ear,  which  he  bent  to  catch  the  little  sound  :  "  I  had 
broken  my  vows  with  you." 

"What  else,  my  lovely  one  —  my  best  beloved  —  what 
more  did  you  see?  "  he  whispered  in  return,  yet  wonder- 
ing why  the  fierce  pain  and  anger  that  he  felt  behind  still 
lay  hidden  from  betrayal. 

"Dream  after  dream,  and  always  we  were  punished. 
But  the  last  time  was  the  clearest,  for  it  was  here  —  here 
where  we  now  walk  together  in  the  sunlight  and  the  wind 
—  it  was  here  the  savages  hurled  us  from  the  rock." 

A  shiver  ran  through  him,  making  him  tremble  with 
an  unaccountable  touch  of  cold  that  communicated  itself 
to  her  as  well.  Her  arm  went  instantly  about  his 
shoulder,  as  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  passionately. 
"Fasten  your  coat  about  you,"  she  said  tenderly,  but 
with  troubled  breath,  when  he  released  her,  "for  this 
wind  is  chill  although  the  sun  shines  brightly.  We  were 
glad,  you  remember,  when  they  stopped  to  kill  us,  for  we 
were  tired  and  our  feet  were  cut  to  pieces  by  the  long, 
rough  journey  from  the  Wall."  Then  suddenly  her  voice 
grew  louder  again  and  the  smile  of  happy  confidence 
came  back  into  her  eyes.  There  was  the  deep  earnest- 
ness of  love  in  it,  of  love  that  cannot  end  or  die.  She 


]         The  Wolves  of  God 

looked  up  into  his  face.  "But  soon  now,''  she  said,  "we 
shall  be  free.  For  you  have  come,  and  it  is  nearly 
finished — this  weary  little  present  dream." 

"How,"  he  asked,  "shall  we  get  free?"  A  red  mist 
swam  momentarily  before  his  eyes. 

"My  father,"  she  replied  at  once,  "will  tell  you  all. 
It  is  quite  easy." 

"Your  father,  too,  remembers?" 

"The  moment  the  collar  touches  him,"  she  said,  "he 
is  a  priest  again.  See  !  Here  he  comes  forth  already 
to  meet  us,  and  to  bid  you  welcome." 

Holt  looked  up,  startled.  He  had  hardly  noticed, 
so  absorbed  had  he  been  in  the  words  that  half  intoxicated 
him,  the  distance  they  had  covered.  The  cottage  was 
now  close  at  hand,  and  a  tall,  powerfully  built  man, 
wearing  a  shepherd's  rough  clothing,  stood  a  few  feet 
in  front  of  him.  His  stature,  breadth  of  shoulder  and 
thick  black  beard  made  up  a  striking  figure.  The  dark 
eyes,  with  fire  in  them,  gazed  straight  into  his  own,  and 
a  kindly  smile  played  round  the  stern  and  vigorous  mouth. 

"Greeting,  my  son,"  said  a  deep,  booming  voice,  "for 
I  shall  call  you  my  son  as  I  did  of  old.  The  bond  of  the 
spirit  is  stronger  than  that  of  the  flesh,  and  with  us  three 
the  tie  is  indeed  of  triple  strength.  You  come,  too,  at 
an  auspicious  hour,  for  the  omens  are  favourable  and 
the  time  of  our  liberation  is  at  hand."  He  took  the 
other's  hand  in  a  grip  that  might  have  killed  an  ox  and 
yet  was  warm  with  gentle  kindliness,  while  Holt,  now 
caught  wholly  into  the  spirit  of  some  deep  reality  he 
could  not  master  yet  accepted,  saw  that  the  wrist  was 
small,  the  fingers  shapely,  the  gesture  itself  one  of  dignity 
and  refinement. 

"Greeting,  my  father,"  he  replied,  as  naturally  as 
though  he  said  more  modern  words. 

"Come  in  with  me,  I  pray,"  pursued  the  other,  lead- 
ing1 the  way,  "  and  let  me  show  you  the  poor  accommoda- 
tion we  have  provided,  yet  the  best  that  we  can  offer." 


The  Tarn  of  Sacrifice          103 

He  stooped  to  pass  the  threshold,  and  as  Holt  stooped 
likewise  the  girl  took  his  hand  and  he  knew  that  his 
bewitchment  was  complete.  Entering  the  low  doorway, 
he  passed  through  a  kitchen,  where  only  the  roughest, 
scantiest  furniture  was  visible,  into  another  room  that 
was  completely  bare.  A  heap  of  dried  bracken  had  been 
spread  on  the  floor  in  one  corner  to  form  a  bed.  Beside 
it  lay  two  cheap,  coloured  blankets.  There  was  nothing- 
else. 

"Our  place  is  poor,"  said  the  man,  smiling-  courte- 
ously, but  with  that  dignity  and  air  of  welcome  which 
made  the  hovel  seem  a  palace.  "Yet  it  may  serve, 
perhaps,  for  the  short  time  that  you  will  need  it.  Our 
little  dream  here  is  wellnigh  over,  now  that  you  have 
come.  The  long  weary  pilgrimage  at  last  draws  to  a 
close."  The  girl  had  left  them  alone  a  moment,  and 
the  man  stepped  closer  to  his  guest.  His  face  grew 
solemn,  his  voice  deeper  and  more  earnest  suddenly,  the 
light  in  his  eyes  seemed  actually  to  flame  with  the 
enthusiasm  of  a  great  belief.  "Why  have  you  tarried 
thus  so  long,  and  where?"  he  asked  in  a  lowered  tone 
that  vibrated  in  the  little  space.  "We  have  sought  you 
with  prayer  and  fasting,  and  she  has  spent  her  nights 
for  you  in  tears.  You  lost  the  way,  it  must  be.  The 
lesser  dreams  entangled  your  feet,  I  see."  A  touch  of 
sadness  entered  the  voice,  the  eyes  held  pity  in  them. 
"It  is,  alas,  too  easy,  I  well  know,"  he  murmured.  "It 
is  too  easy." 

"I  lost  the  way,"  the  other  replied.  It  seemed  sud- 
denly that  his  heart  was  filled  with  fire.  "But  now,"  he 
cried  aloud,  "now  that  I  have  found  her,  I  will  never, 
never  let  her  go  again.  My  feet  are  steady  and  my  way 
is  sure." 

"For  ever  and  ever,  my  son,"  boomed  the  happy,  yet 
almost  solemn  answer,  "she  is  yours.  Our  freedom  is 
at  hand." 

He  turned  and  crossed  the  little  kitchen  again,  making 


104  The  Wolves  of  God 

a  sign  that  his  guest  should  follow  him.  They  stood  to- 
gether by  the  door,  looking  out  across  the  tarn  in  silence. 
The  afternoon  sunshine  fell  in  a  golden  blaze  across  the 
bare  hills  that  seemed  to  smoke  with  the  glory  of  the  fiery 
light.  But  the  Crag  loomed  dark  in  shadow  overhead, 
and  the  little  lake  lay  deep  and  black  beneath  it. 

"Acella,  Acella  !  "  called  the  man,  the  name  breaking 
upon  his  companion  as  with  a  shock  of  sweet  delicious  fire 
that  filled  his  entire  being,  as  the  girl  came  the  same 
instant  from  behind  the  cottage.  "The  Gods  call  me," 
said  her  father.  "I  go  now  to  the  hill.  Protect  our 
guest  and  comfort  him  in  my  absence." 

Without  another  word,  he  strode  away  up  the  hillside 
and  presently  was  visible  standing  on  the  summit  of  the 
Crag,  his  arms  stretched  out  above  his  head  to  heaven, 
his  great  head  thrown  back,  his  bearded  face  turned  up- 
wards. An  impressive,  even  a  majestic  figure  he  looked, 
as  his  bulk  and  stature  rose  in  dark  silhouette  against  the 
brilliant  evening  sky.  Holt  stood  motionless,  watching 
him  for  several  minutes,  his  heart  swelling  in  his  breast, 
his  pulses  thumping  before  some  great  nameless  pressure 
that  rose  from  the  depths  of  his  being.  That  inner  atti- 
tude which  seemed  a  new  and  yet  more  satisfying  attitude 
to  life  than  he  had  known  hitherto,  had  crystallized. 
Define  it  he  could  not,  he  only  knew  that  he  accepted  it  as 
natural.  It  satisfied  him.  The  sight  of  that  dignified, 
gaunt  figure  worshipping  upon  the  hill-top  en  flamed 
him.  .  .  . 

"I  have  brought  the  stone,"  a  voice  interrupted  his 
reflections,  and  turning,  he  saw  the  girl  beside  him.  She 
held  out  for  his  inspection  a  dark  square  object  that  looked 
to  him  at  first  like  a  black  stone  lying  against  the  brown 
skin  of  her  hand.  "The  Mystery  Stone,"  the  girl  added, 
as  their  faces  bent  down  together  to  examine  it.  "It  is 
there  I  see  the  dreams  I  told  you  of." 

He  took  it  from  her  and  found  that  it  was  heavy,  com- 
posed apparently  of  something  like  black  quartz,  with  a 


The  Tarn  of  Sacrifice          105 

brilliant  polished  surface  that  revealed  clear  depths  within. 
Once,  evidently,  it  had  been  set  in  a  stand  or  frame,  for 
the  marks  where  it  had  been  attached  still  showed,  and 
it  was  obviously  of  great  age.  He  felt  confused,  the  mind 
in  him  troubled  yet  excited,  as  he  grazed.  The  effect  upon 
him  was  as  though  a  wind  rose  suddenly  and  passed 
across  his  inmost  subjective  life,  setting  its  entire  con- 
tents in  rushing  motion. 

"And  here,"  the  girl  said,  "is  the  dagger." 

He  took  from  her  the  short  bronze  weapon,  feeling  at 
once  instinctively  its  ragged  edge,  its  keen  point,  sharp 
and  effective  still.  The  handle  had  long  since  rotted 
away,  but  the  bronze  tongue,  and  the  holes  where  the 
rivets  had  been,  remained,  and,  as  he  touched  it,  the  con- 
fusion and  trouble  in  his  mind  increased  to  a  kind  of  tur- 
moil, in  which  violence,  linked  to  something  tameless, 
wild  and  almost  savage,  was  the  dominating  emotion.  He 
turned  to  seize  the  girl  and  crush  her  to  him  in  a  passion- 
ate embrace,  but  she  held  away,  throwing  back  her  lovely 
head,  her  eyes  shining,  her  lips  parted,  yet  one  hand 
stretched  out  to  stop  him. 

"First  look  into  it  with  me,"  she  said  quietly.  "Let 
us  see  together." 

She  sat  down  on  the  turf  beside  the  cottage  door,  and 
Holt,  obeying,  took  his  place  beside  her.  She  remained 
very  still  for  some  minutes,  covering  the  stone  with  both 
hands  as  though  to  warm  it.  Her  lips  moved.  She 
seemed  to  be  repeating  some  kind  of  invocation  beneath 
her  breath,  though  no  actual  words  were  audible. 
Presently  her  hands  parted.  They  sat  together  gazing 
at  the  polished  surface.  They  looked  within. 

"There  comes  a  white  mist  in  the  heart  of  the  stone," 
the  girl  whispered.  "  It  will  soon  open.  The  pictures 
will  then  grow.  Look  !  "  she  exclaimed  after  a  brief 
pause,  "they  are  forming  now." 

"I  see  only  mist,"  her  companion  murmured,  gazing 
intently.     "Only  mist   I   see." 
H 


106  The  Wolves  of  God 

She  took  his  hand  and  instantly  the  mist  parted.  He 
found  himself  peering  into  another  landscape  which  opened 
before  his  eyes  as  though  it  were  a  photograph.  Hills 
covered  with  heather  stretched  away  on  every  side. 

" Hills,  I  see,"  he  whispered.     "The  ancient  hills— 

"Watch  closely,''  she  replied,  holding  his  hand 
firmly. 

At  first  the  landscape  was  devoid  of  any  sign  of  life ; 
then  suddenly  it  surged  and  swarmed  with  moving  figures. 
Torrents  of  men  poured  over  the  hill-crests  and  down  their 
heathery  sides  in  columns.  He  could  see  them  clearly — 
great  hairy  men,  clad  in  skins,  with  thick  shields  on  their 
left  arms  or  slung  over  their  backs,  and  short  stabbing 
spears  in  their  hands.  Thousands  upon  thousands  poured 
over  in  an  endless  stream.  In  the  distance  he  could  see 
other  columns  sweeping  in  a  turning  movement.  A  few 
of  the  men  rode  rough  ponies  and  seemed  to  be  directing 
the  march,  and  these,  he  knew,  were  the  chiefs.  .  .  . 

The  scene  grew  dimmer,  faded,  died  away  completely. 
Another  took  its  place  : 

By  the  faint  light  he  knew  that  it  was  dawn.  The 
undulating  country,  less  hilly  than  before,  was  still  wild 
and  uncultivated.  A  great  wall,  with  towers  at  intervals, 
stretched  away  till  it  was  lost  in  shadowy  distance.  On 
the  nearest  of  these  towers  he  saw  a  sentinel  clad  in 
armour,  gazing  out  across  the  rolling  country.  The 
armour  gleamed  faintly  in  the  pale  glimmering  light,  as 
the  man  suddenly  snatched  up  a  bugle  and  blew  upon  it. 
From  a  brazier  burning  beside  him  he  next  seized  a  brand 
and  fired  a  great  heap  of  brushwood.  The  smoke  rose  in 
a  dense  column  into  the  air  almost  immediately,  and  from 
all  directions,  with  incredible  rapidity,  figures  came  pour- 
ing up  to  man  the  wall.  Hurriedly  they  strung  their 
bows,  and  laid  spare  arrows  close  beside  them  on  the  cop- 
ing. The  light  grew  brighter.  The  whole  country  was 
alive  with  savages ;  like  the  waves  of  the  sea  they  came 
rolling  in  enormous  numbers.  For  several  minutes  the 


The  Tarn  of  Sacrifice          107 

wall  held.  Then,  in  an  impetuous,  fearful  torrent,  they 
poured  over.  .  .  . 

It  faded,  died  away,  was  gone  again,  and  a  moment 
later  yet  another  took  its  place  : 

But  this  time  the  landscape  was  familiar,  and  he  recog- 
nized the  tarn.  He  saw  the  savages  upon  the  ledge  that 
flanked  the  dominating  Crag ;  they  had  three  captives  with 
them.  He  saw  two  men.  The  other  was  a  woman.  But 
the  woman  had  fallen  exhausted  to  the  ground,  and  a 
chief  on  a  rough  pony  rode  back  to  see  what  had  delayed 
the  march.  Glancing  at  the  captives,  he  made  a  fierce 
gesture  with  his  arm  towards  the  water  far  below.  In- 
stantly the  woman  was  jerked  cruelly  to  her  feet  and 
forced  onwards  till  the  summit  of  the  Crag  was  reached. 
A  man  snatched  something  from  her  hand.  A  second  later 
she  was  hurled  over  the  brink. 

The  two  men  were  next  dragged  on  to  the  dizzy  spot 
where  she  had  stood.  Dead  with  fatigue,  bleeding  from 
numerous  wounds,  yet  at  this  awful  moment  they 
straightened  themselves,  casting  contemptuous  glances  at 
the  fierce  savages  surrounding  them.  They  were  Romans 
and  would  die  like  Romans.  Holt  saw  their  faces  clearly 
for  the  first  time. 

He  sprang  up  with  a  cry  of  anguished  fury. 

"The  second  man!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  saw  the 
second  man  !  " 

The  girl,  releasing  his  hand,  turned  her  eyes  slowly 
up  to  his,  so  that  he  met  the  flame  of  her  ancient  and 
undying  love  shining  like  stars  upon  him  out  of  the  night 
of  time. 

"Ever  since  that  moment,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice 
that  trembled,  "  I  have  been  looking,  waiting  for  you " 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  smothered  her  words  with 
kisses,  holding  her  fiercely  to  him  as  though  he  would 
never  let  her  go.  "  I,  too,"  he  said,  his  whole  being  burn- 
ing with  his  love,  "I  have  been  looking,  waiting  for  you. 
Now  I  have  found  you.  We  have  found  each  other.  .  .  .  !  " 


io8  The  Wolves  of  God 

The  dusk  fell  slowly,  imperceptibly.  As  twilight  slowly 
draped  the  gaunt  hills,  blotting  out  familiar  details,  so 
the  strong  dream,  veil  upon  veil,  drew  closer  over  the  soul 
of  the  wanderer,  obliterating  finally  the  last  reminder  of 
Today.  The  little  wind  had  dropped  and  the  desolate 
moors  lay  silent,  but  for  the  hum  of  distant  water  falling 
to  its  valley  bed.  His  life,  too,  and  the  life  of  the  girl, 
he  knew,  were  similarly  falling^  falling  into  some  deep 
shadowed  bed  where  rest  would  come  at  last.  No  details 
troubled  him,  he  asked  himself  no  questions.  A  profound 
sense  of  happy  peace  numbed  every  nerve  and  stilled  his 
beating  heart. 

He  felt  no  fear,  no  anxiety,  no  hint  of  alarm  or  uneasi- 
ness vexed  his  singular  contentment.  He  realized  one 
thing  only — that  the  girl  lay  in  his  arms,  he  held  her  fast, 
her  breath  mingled  with  his  own.  They  had  found  each 
other.  What  else  mattered? 

From  time  to  time,  as  the  daylight  faded  and  the  sun 
went  down  behind  the  moors,  she  spoke.  She  uttered 
words  he  vaguely  heard,  listening,  though  with  a  certain 
curious  effort,  before  he  closed  the  thing  she  said  with 
kisses.  Even  the  fierceness  of  his  blood  was  gone.  The 
world  lay  still,  life  almost  ceased  to  flow.  Lapped  in  the 
deeps  of  his  great  love,  he  was  redeemed,  perhaps,  of 
violence  and  savagery.  .  .  . 

"Three  dark  birds,"  she  whispered,  "pass  across  the 
sky  .  .  .  they  fall  beyond  the  ridge.  The  omens  are 
favourable.  A  hawk  now  follows  them,  cleaving  the  sky 
with  pointed  wings." 

"A  hawk,"  he  murmured.  "The  badge  of  my  old 
Legion." 

"My  father  will  perform  the  sacrifice,"  he  heard  again, 
though  it  seemed  a  long  interval  had  passed,  and  the 
man's  figure  was  now  invisible  on  the  Crag  amid  the 
gathering  darkness.  "Already  he  prepares  the  fire. 
Look,  the  sacred  island  is  alight.  He  has  the  black  cock 
ready  for  the  knlife." 


The  Tarn  of  Sacrifice          109 

Holt  roused  himself  with  difficulty,  lifting  his  face 
from  the  garden  of  her  hair.  A  faint  light,  he  saw, 
gleamed  fitfully  on  -the  holm  within  the  tarn.  Her  father, 
then,  had  descended  from  the  Crag,  and  had  lit  the 
sacrificial  fire  upon  the  stones.  But  what  did  the  doings 
of  the  father  matter  now  to  him? 

"The  dark  bird,"  he  repeated  dully,  "the  black  victim 
the  Gods  of  the  Underworld  alone  accept.  It  is  good, 
Acella,  it  is  good  !  "  He  was  about  to  sink  back  again, 
taking  her  against  his  breast  as  before,  when  she  re- 
sisted and  sat  up  suddenly. 

"It  is  time,"  she  said  aloud.  "The  hour  has  come. 
My  father  climbs,  and  we  must  join  him  on  the  summit. 
Come  !  " 

She  took  his  hand  and  raised  him  to  his  feet,  and 
together  they  began  the  rough  ascent  towards  the  Crag. 
As  they  passed  along  the  shore  of  the  Tarn  of  Blood,  he 
saw  the  fire  reflected  in  the  ink-black  waters ;  he  made 
out,  too,  though  dimly,  a  rough  circle  of  big  stones,  with 
a  larger  flag-stone  lying  in  the  centre.  Three  small  fires 
of  bracken  and  wood,  placed  in  a  triangle  with  its  apex 
towards  the  Standing  Stone  on  the  distant  hill,  burned 
briskly,  the  crackling  material  sending  out  sparks  that 
pierced  the  columns  of  thick  smoke.  And  in  this  smoke, 
peering,  shifting,  appearing  and  disappearing,  it  seemed 
he  saw  great  faces  moving.  The  flickering  light  and 
twirling  smoke  made  clear  sight  difficult.  His  bliss,  his 
lethargy  were  very  deep.  They  left  the  tarn  below  them 
and  hand  in  hand  began  to  climb  the  final  slope. 

Whether  the  physical  effort  of  climbing  disturbed  the 
deep  pressure  of  the  mood  that  numbed  his  senses,  or 
whether  the  cold  draught  of  wind  they  met  upon  the 
ridge  restored  some  vital  detail  of  To-day,  Holt  does  not 
know.  Something,  at  any  rate,  in  him  wavered  sud- 
denly, as  though  a  centre  of  gravity  had  shifted  slightly. 
There  was  a  perceptible  alteration  in  the  balance  of 
thought  and  feeling  that  had  held  invariable  now  for  many 


no  The  Wolves  of  God 

hours.  It  seemed  to  him  that  something  heavy  lifted, 
or  rather,  began  to  lift — a  weight,  a  shadow,  something 
oppressive  that  obstructed  light.  A  ray  of  light,  as  it 
were,  struggled  through  the  thick  darkness  that  enveloped 
him.  To  him,  as  he  paused  on  the  ridge  to  recover  his 
breath,  came  this  vague  suggestion  of  faint  light  breaking 
across  the  blackness.  It  was  objective. 

"See,"  said  the  girl  in  a  low  voice,  "the  moon  is 
rising.  It  lights  the  sacred  island.  The  blood-red  waters 
turn  to  silver." 

He  saw,  indeed,  that  a  huge  three-quarter  moon  now 
drove  with  almo-st  visible  movement  above  the  distant  line 
of  hills ;  the  little  tarn  gleamed  as  with  silvery  armour ; 
the  glow  of  the  sacrificial  fires  showed  red  across  it.  He 
looked  down  with  a  shudder  into  the  sheer  depth  that 
opened  at  his  feet,  then  turned  to  look  at  his  companion. 
He  started  and  shrank  back.  Her  face,  lit  by  the  moon 
and  by  the  fire,  shone  pale  as  death  ;  her  black  hair  framed 
it  with  a  terrible  suggestiveness ;  the  eyes,  though  brilliant 
as  ever,  had  a  film  upon  them.  She  stood  in  an  attitude 
of  both  ecstasy  and  resignation,  and  one  outstretched  arm 
pointed  towards  the  summit  where  her  father  stood. 

Her  lips  parted,  a  marvellous  smile  broke  over  her 
features,  her  voice  was  suddenly  unfamiliar :  "  He  wears 
the  collar,"  she  uttered.  "Come.  Our  time  is  here  at 
last,  and  we  are  ready.  See,  he  waits  for  us  !  " 

There  rose  for  the  first  time  struggle  and  opposition 
in  him ;  he  resisted  the  pressure  of  her  hand  that  had 
seized  his  own  and  drew  him  forcibly  along.  Whence 
came  the  resistance  and  the  opposition  he  could  not  tell, 
but  though  he  followed  her,  he  was  aware  that  the 
refusal  in  him  strengthened.  The  weight  of  darkness 
that  oppressed  him  shifted  a  little  more,  an  inner  light 
increased.  The  same  moment  they  reached  the  summit 
and  stood  beside — the  priest.  There  was  a  curious  sound 
of  fluttering.  The  figure,  he  saw,  was  naked,  save  for  a 
rough  blanket  tied  loosely  about  the  waist. 


The  Tarn  of  Sacrifice          in 

"The  hour  has  come  at  last,"  cried  his  deep  booming 
voice  that  woke  echoes  from  the  dark  hills  about  them. 
"We  are  alone  now  with  our  Gods."  And  he  broke  then 
into  a  monotonous  rhythmic  chanting  that  rose  and  fell 
upon  the  wind,  yet  an  a  tongue  that  sounded  strange ;  his 
erect  figure  swayed  slightly  with  its  cadences ;  his  black 
beard  swept  his  naked  chest;  and  his  face,  turned  sky- 
wards, shone  in  the  mingled  light  of  moon  above  and  fire 
below,  yet  with  an  added  light  as  well  that  burned  within 
him  rather  than  without.  He  was  a  weird,  magnificent 
figure,  a  priest  of  ancient  rites  invoking  his  deathless 
deities  upon  the  unchanging  hills. 

But  upon  Holt,  too,  as  he  stared  in  awed  amazement, 
an  inner  light  had  broken  suddenly.  It  came  as  with  a 
dazzling  blaze  that  at  first  paralysed  thought  and  action. 
His  mind  cleared,  but  too  abruptly  for  movement,  either 
of  tongue  or  hand,  to  be  possible.  Then,  abruptly,  the 
inner  darkness  rolled  away  completely.  The  light  in  the 
wild  eyes  of  the  great  chanting,  swaying  figure,  he  now 
knew  was  the  light  of  mania. 

The  faint  fluttering  sound  increased,  and  the  voice  of 
the  girl  was  oddly  mingled  with  it.  The  priest  had 
ceased  his  invocation.  Holt,  aware  that  he  stood  alone, 
saw  the  girl  go  past  him  carrying  a  big  black  bird  that 
struggled  with  vainly  beating  wings. 

"Behold  the  sacrifice,"  she  said,  as  she  knelt  before 
her  father  and  held  up  the  victim.  "  May  the  Gods  accept 
it  as  presently  They  shall  accept  us  too !  " 

The  great  figure  stooped  and  took  the  offering,  and 
with  one  blow  of  the  knife  he  held,  its  head  was  severed 
from  its  body.  The  blood  spattered  on  the  white  face  of 
the  kneeling  girl.  Holt  was  aware  for  the  first  time  that 
she,  too,  was  now  unclothed ;  but  for  a  loose  blanket,  her 
white  body  gleamed  against  the  dark  heather  in  the 
moonlight.  At  the  same  moment  she  rose  to  her  feet, 
stood  upright,  turned  towards  him  so  that  he  saw  the 
dark  hair  streaming  across  her  naked  shoulders,  and,  with 


ii2  The  Wolves  of  God 

a  face  of  ecstasy,  yet  ever  that  strange  film  upon  her  eyes, 
her  voice  came  to  him  on  the  wind  : 

"  Farewell,  yet  not  farewell !  We  shall  meet,  all  three, 
in  the  underworld.  The  Gods  accept  us  !  " 

Turning-  her  face  away,  she  stepped  towards  the 
ominous  figure  behind,  and  bared  her  ivory  neck  and 
breast  to  the  knife.  The  eyes  of  the  maniac  were  upon 
her  own;  she  was  as  helpless  and  obedient  as  a  lamb 
before  his  spell. 

Then  Holt's  horrible  paralysis,  if  only  just  in  time, 
was  lifted.  The  priest  had  raised  Ms  arm,  the  bronze 
knife  with  its  ragged  edge  gleamed  In  the  air,  with  the 
other  hand  he  had  already  gathered  up  the  thick  dark 
hair,  so  that  the  neck  lay  bare  and  open  to  the  final  blow. 
But  it  was  two  other  details,  Holt  thinks,  that  set  his 
muscles  suddenly  free,  enabling  him  to  act  with  the  swift 
judgment  which,  being  wholly  unexpected,  disconcerted 
both  maniac  and  victim  and  frustrated  the  awful  cul- 
mination. The  dark  spots  of  blood  upon  the  face  he 
loved,  and  the  sudden  final  fluttering  of  the  dead  bird's 
wings  upon  the  ground — these  two  things,  life  actually 
touching  death,  released  the  held-back  springs. 

He  leaped  forward.  He  received  the  blow  upon  bis 
left  arm  and  hand.  It  was  his  right  fist  that  sent  the 
High  Priest  to  earth  with  a  blow  that,  luckily,  felled  him 
in  the  direction  away  from  the  dreadful  brink,  and  it  was 
his  right  arm  and  hand,  he  became  aware  some  time  after- 
wards only,  that  were  chiefly  of  use  in  carrying  the  faint- 
ing girl  and  her  unconscious  father  back  to  the  shelter  of 
the  cottage,  and  to  the  best  help  and  comfort  he  could 
provide.  .  .  . 

It  was  several  years  afterwards,  in  a  very  different 
setting,  that  he  found  himself  spelling  out  slowly  to  n. 
little  boy  the  lettering  cut  into  a  circlet  of  bronze  the 
child  found  on  his  study  table.  To  the  child  he  told  a 
fairy  tale,  then  dismissed  him  to  play  with  his  mother  in 
the  garden.  But,  when  alone,  he  rubbed  away  the  verdi- 


The  Tarn  of  Sacrifice          113 

gris  with  great  care,  for  the  circlet  was  thin  and  frail  with 
age,  as  he  examined  again  the  little  picture  of  a  tripod 
from  which  smoke  issued,  incised  neatly  in  the  metal. 
Below  it,  almost  as  sharp  as  when  the  Roman  craftsman 
cut  it  first,  was  the  name  Acella.  He  touched  the  letters 
tenderly  with  his  left  hand,  from  which  two  fingers  were 
missing,  then  placed  it  in  a  drawer  of  his  desk  and  turned 
the  key. 

"That  curious  name,"  said  a  low  voice  behind  his 
chair.  His  wife  had  come  in  and  was  looking  over  his 
shoulder.  "You  love  it,  and  I  dread  it."  She  sat  on  the 
desk  beside  him,  her  eyes  troubled.  "It  was  the  name 
father  used  to  called  me  in  his  illness." 

Her  husband  looked  at  her  with  passionate  tenderness, 
but  said  no  word. 

"And  this,"  she  went  on,  taking  the  broken  hand  in 
both  her  own,  "is  the  price  you  paid  to  me  for  his  life. 
I  often  wonder  what  strange  good  deity  brought  you  upon 
the  lonely  moor  that  night,  and  just  in  the  very  nick  of 
time.  You  remember  ...  ?  " 

"The  deity  who  helps  true  lovers,  of  course,"  he  said 
with  a  smile,  evading  the  question.  The  deeper  memory, 
he  knew,  had  closed  absolutely  in  her  since  the  moment 
of  the  attempted  double  crime.  He  kissed  her,  murmur- 
ing to  himself  as  he  did  so,  but  too  low  for  her  to  hear, 
"Acella!  My  Acella  ...  !  " 


VI 
THE  VALLEY  OF , THE  BEASTS 


As  they  emerged  suddenly  from  the  dense  forest  the 
Indian  halted,  and  Grimwood,  his  employer,  stood  beside 
him,  gazing  into  the  beautiful  wooded  valley  that  lay 
spread  below  them  in  the  blaze  of  a  golden  sunset.  Both 
men  leaned  upon  their  rifles,  caught  by  the  enchantment 
of  the  unexpected  scene. 

"We  camp  here,"  said  Tooshalli  abruptly,  after  a 
careful  survey.  "To-morrow  we  make  a  plan." 

He  spoke  excellent  English.  The  note  of  decision, 
almost  of  authority,  in  his  voice  was  noticeable,  but 
Grimwood  set  it  down  to  the  natural  excitement  of  the 
moment.  Every  track  they  had  followed  during  the  last 
two  days,  but  one  track  in  particular  as  well,  had  headed 
straight  for  this  remote  and  hidden  valley,  and  the  sport 
promised  to  be  unusual. 

"That's  so,"  he  replied,  in  the  tone  of  one  giving  an 
order.  "You  can  make  camp  ready  at  once."  And  he 
sat  down  on  a  fallen  hemlock  to  take  off  his  moccasin 
boots  and  grease  his  feet  that  ached  from  the  arduous 
day  now  drawing  to  a  dose.  Though  under  ordinary 
circumstances  he  would  have  pushed  on  for  another  hour 
or  two,  he  was  not  averse  to  a  night  here,  for  ex- 
haustion had  come  upon  him  during  the  last  bit  of  rough 
going,  his  eye  and  muscles  were  no  longer  steady,  and 
it  was  doubtful  if  he  could  have  shot  straight  enough 
to  kill.  He  did  not  mean  to  miss  a  second  time. 

114 


The  Valley  of  the  Beasts       115 

With  his  Canadian  friend,  Iredale,  the  latter's  half- 
breed,  and  his  own  Indian,  Tooshalli,  the  party  had  set 
out  three  weeks  ago  to  find  the  "wonderful  big  moose  " 
the  Indians  reported  were  travelling  in  the  Snow  River 
country.  They  soon  found  that  the  tale  was  true ;  tracks 
were  abundant;  they  saw  fine  animals  nearly  every  day, 
but  though  carrying  good  heads,  the  hunters  expected 
better  still  and  left  them  alone.  Pushing  up  the  river 
to  a  chain  of  small  lakes  near  its  source,  they  then 
separated  into  two  parties,  each  with  its  nine-foot  bark 
canoe,  and  packed  in  for  three  days  after  the  yet  bigger 
animals  the  Indians  agreed  would  be  found  in  the  deeper 
woods  beyond.  Excitement  was  keen,  expectation  keener 
still.  The  day  before  they  separated,  Iredale  shot  the 
biggest  moose  of  his  life,  and  its  head,  bigger  even  than 
the  grand  Alaskan  heads,  hangs  in  his  house  to-day. 
Grimwood's  hunting  blood  was  fairly  up.  His  blood 
was  of  the  fiery,  not  to  say  ferocious,  quality.  It  almost 
seemed  he  liked  killing  for  its  own  sake. 

Four  days  after  the  party  broke  into  two  he  came 
upon  a  gigantic  track,  whose  measurements  and  length 
of  stride  keyed  every  nerve  he  possessed  to  its  highest 
tension. 

Tooshalli  examined  the  tracks  for  some  minutes  with 
care.  "It  is  the  biggest  moose  in  the  world,"  he  said  at 
length,  a  new  expression  on  his  inscrutable  red  visage. 

Following  it  all  that  day,  they  yet  got  no  sight  of 
the  big  fellow  that  seemed  to  be  frequenting  a  little 
marshy  dip  of  country,  too  small  to  be  called  valley, 
where  willow  and  undergrowth  abounded.  He  had  not 
yet  scented  his  pursuers.  They  were  after  him  again  at 
dawn.  Towards  the  evening  of  the  second  day  Grim- 
wood  caught  a  sudden  glimpse  of  the  monster  among  a 
thick1  clump  of  willows,  and  the  sight  of  the  magnificent 
head  that  easily  beat  all  records  set  his  heart  beating 
like  a  hammer  with  excitement.  He  aimed  and  fired. 
But  the  moose,  instead  of  crashing,  went  thundering 


n6  The  Wolves  of  God 

away  through  the  further  scrub  and  disappeared,  the 
sound  of  his  plunging  canter  presently  dying  away. 
Grimwood  had  missed,  even  if  he  had  wounded. 

They  camped,  and  all  next  day,  leaving  the  canoe 
behind,  they  followed  the  huge  track,  but  though  finding 
signs  of  blood,  these  were  not  plentiful,  and  the  shot  had 
evidently  only  grazed  the  animal.  The  travelling  was  of 
the  hardest.  Towards  evening,  utterly  exhausted,  the 
spoor  led  them  to  the  ridge  they  now  stood  upon,  gazing 
down  into  the  enchanting  valley  that  opened  at  their  feet. 
The  giant  moose  had  gone  down  into  this  valley.  He 
would  consider  himself  safe  there.  Grimwood  agreed 
with  the  Indian's  judgment.  They  would  camp  for  the 
night  and  continue  at  dawn  the  wild  hunt  after  "the 
biggest  moose  in  the  world." 

Supper  was  over,  the  small  fire  used  for  cooking 
dying  down,  when  Grimwood  became  first  aware  that 
the  Indian  was  not  behaving  quite  as  usual.  What 
particular  detail  drew  his  attention  is  hard  to  say.  He 
was  a  slow-witted,  heavy  man,  full-blooded,  unobservant ; 
a  fact  had  to  hurt  him  through  his  comfort,  through  his 
pleasure,  before  he  noticed  it.  Yet  anyone  else  must 
have  observed  the  changed  mood  of  the  Redskin  long 
ago.  Tooshalli  had  made  the  fire,  fried  the  bacon,  served 
the  tea,  and  was  arranging  the  blankets,  his  own  and 
his  employer's,  before  the  latter  remarked  upon  his — 
silence.  Tooshalli  had  not  uttered  a  word  for  over  an 
hour  and  a  half,  since  he  had  first  set  eyes  upon  the 
new  valley,  to  be  exact.  And  his  employer  now  noticed 
the  unaccustomed  silence,  because  after  food  he  liked  to 
listen  to  wood  talk  and  hunting  lore. 

"Tired  out,  aren't  you?  "  said  big  Grimwood,  looking 
into  the  dark  face  across  the  firelight.  He  resented  the 
absence  of  conversation,  now  that  he  noticed  it.  He  was 
over-weary  himself,  he  felt  more  irritable  than  usual, 
though  his  temper  was  always  vile. 

"Lost  your  tongue,  eh?  "  he  went  on  with  a  growl,  as 


The  Valley  of  the  Beasts       117 

the  Indian  returned  his  stare  with  solemn,  expressionless 
face.  That  dark  inscrutable  look  got  on  his  nerves  a 
bit.  "Speak  up,  man  !  "  he  exclaimed  sharply.  "What's 
it  all  about?  " 

The  Englishman  had  at  last  realized  that  there  was 
something  to  "speak  up"  about.  The  discovery,  in  his 
present  state,  annoyed  him  further.  Tooshalli  stared 
gravely,  but  made  no  reply.  The  silence  was  prolonged 
almost  into  minutes.  Presently  the  head  turned  sideways, 
as  though  the  man  listened.  The  other  watched  him  very 
closely,  anger  growing  in  him. 

But  it  was  the  way  the  Redskin  turned  his  head, 
keeping  his  body  rigid,  that  gave  the  jerk  to  Grimwood's 
nerves,  providing  him  with  a  sensation  he  had  never 
known  in  his  life  before — it  gave  him  what  is  generally 
called  "the  goose-flesh."  It  seemed  to  jangle  his  entire 
system,  yet  at  the  same  time  made  him  cautious.  He  did 
not  like  it,  this  combination  of  emotions  puzzled  him. 

"Say  something,  I  tell  you,"  he  repeated  in  a  harsher 
tone,  raising  his  voice.  He  sat  up,  drawing  his  great  body 
closer  to  the  fire.  "  Say  something,  damn  it  !  " 

His  voice  fell  dead  against  the  surrounding  trees, 
making  the  silence  of  the  forest  unpleasantly  noticeable. 
Very  still  the  great  woods  stood  about  them  ;  there  was 
no  wind,  no  stir  of  branches ;  only  the  crackle  of  a  snap- 
ping twig  was  audible  from  time  to  time,  as  the  night-life 
moved  unwarily  sometimes,  watching  the  humans  round 
their  little  fire.  The  October  air  had  a  frosty  touch  that 
nipped. 

The  Redskin  did  not  answer.  No  muscle  of  his  neck 
nor  of  his  stiffened  body  moved.  He  seemed  all  ears. 

"Well?  "  repeated  the  Englishman,  lowering  his  voice 
this  time  instinctively.  "What  d'you  hear,  God  damn 
it !  "  The  touch  of  odd  nervousness  that  made  his  anger 
grow  betrayed  itself  in  his  language. 

Tooshalli  slowly  turned  his  head  back  again  to  its 
normal  position,  the  body  rigid  as  before. 


n8  The  Wolves  of  God 

"I  hear  nothing,  Mr.  Grimwood,"  he  said,  gazing  with 
quiet  dignity  into  his  employer's  eyes. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  other,  a  man  of  savage 
temper  at  the  best  of  times.  He  was  the  type  of  English- 
man who  held  strong  views  as  to  the  right  way  of  treating 
"  inferior  "  races. 

"That's  a  lie,  Tooshalli,  and  I  won't  have  you  lie 
to  me.  Now  what  was  it?  Tell  me  at  once  !  " 

"I  hear  nothing,"  repeated  the  other.     "I  only  think." 

"And  what  is  it  you're  pleased  to  think?  "  Impatience 
made  a  nasty  expression  round  the  mouth. 

"I  go  not,"  was  the  abrupt  reply,  unalterable  decision 
in  the  voice. 

The  man's  rejoinder  was  so  unexpected  that  Grim- 
wood  found  nothing  to  say  at  first.  For  a  moment  he 
did  not  take  its  meaning;  his  mind,  always  slow,  was 
confused  by  impatience,  also  by  what  he  considered  the 
foolishness  of  the  little  scene.  Then  in  a  flash  he  under- 
stood ;  but  he  also  understood  the  immovable  obstinacy 
of  the  race  he  had  to  deal  with.  Tooshalli  was  informing 
him  that  he  refused  to  go  into  the  valley  where  the  big 
moose  had  vanished.  And  his  astonishment  was  so  great 
at  first  that  he  merely  sat  and  stared.  No  words  came 
to  him. 

"It  is "  said  the  Indian,  but  used  a  native 

term. 

"What's  that  mean?  "  Grimwood  found  his  tongue, 
but  his  quiet  tone  was  ominous. 

"Mr.  Grimwood,  it  mean  the  '  Valley  of  the  Beasts,'  " 
was  the  reply  in  a  tone  quieter  still. 

The  Englishman  made  a  great,  a  genuine  effort  at  self- 
control.  He  was  dealing,  he  forced  himself  to  remember, 
with  a  superstitious  Redskin.  He  knew  the  stubborn- 
ness of  the  type.  If  the  man  left  him  his  sport  was 
irretrievably  spoilt,  for  he  could  not  hunt  in  this  wilder- 
ness alone,  and  even  if  he  got  the  coveted  head,  he  could 
never,  never  get  it  out  alone.  His  native  selfishness 


The  Valley  of  the  Beasts       119 

seconded  his  effort.  Persuasion,  if  only  he  could  keep 
back  his  rising  anger,  was  his  r61e  to  play. 

"The  Valley  of  the  Beasts,"  he  said,  a  smile  on  his  lips 
rather  than  in  his  darkening  eyes;  "but  that's  just  what 
we  want.  It's  beasts  we're  after,  isn't  it?"  His  voice 
had  a  false  cheery  ring  that  could  not  have  deceived  a 
child.  "But  what  d'you  mean,  anyhow — the  Valley  of 
the  Beasts  ?  "  He  asked  it  with  a  dull  attempt  at  sympathy. 

"It  belong  to  Ishtot,  Mr.  Grimwood."  The  man 
looked  him  full  in  the  face,  no  flinching  in  the  eyes. 

"My — our — big  moose  is  there,"  said  the  other,  who- 
recognized  the  name  of  the  Indian  Hunting  God,  and 
understanding  better,  felt  confident  he  would  soon  per- 
suade his  man.  Tooshalli,  he  remembered,  too,  was 
nominally  a  Christian.  "We'll  follow  him  at  dawn  and 
get  the  biggest  head  the  world  has  ever  seen.  You  will 
be  famous,"  he  added,  his  temper  better  in  hand  again. 
"  Your  tribe  will  honour  you.  And  the  white  hunters  will 
pay  you  much  money." 

"He  go  there  to  save  himself.     I  go  not." 

The  other's  anger  revived  with  a  leap  at  this  stupid 
obstinacy.  But,  in  spite  of  it,  he  noticed  the  odd  choice 
of  words.  He  began  to  realize  that  nothing  now  would 
move  the  man.  At  the  same  time  he  also  realized  that 
violence  on  his  part  must  prove  worse  than  useless.  Yet 
violence  was  natural  to  his  "dominant"  type.  "That 
brute  Grimwood"  was  the  way  most  men  spoke  of  him. 

"Back  at  the  settlement  you're  a  Christian,  remem- 
ber," he  tried,  in  his  clumsy  way,  another  line.  "And 
disobedience  means  hell-fire.  You  know  that  !  " 

"la  Christian — at  the  post,"  was  the  reply,  "but  out 
here  the  Red  God  rule.  Ishtot  keep  that  valley  for  him- 
self. No  Indian  hunt  there."  It  was  as  though  a  granite 
boulder  spoke. 

The  savage  temper  of  the  Englishman,  enforced  by  the 
long  difficult  suppression,  rose  wickedly  into  sudden  flame. 
He  stood  up,  kicking  his  blankets  aside.  He  strode 


120  The  Wolves  of  God 

across  the  dying  fire  to  the  Indian's  side.  Tooshalli  also 
rose.  They  faced  each  other,  two  humans  alone  in  the 
wilderness,  watched  by  countless  invisible  forest  eyes. 

Tooshalli  stood  motionless,  yet  as  though  he  expected 
violence  from  the  foolish,  ignorant  white-face.  "  You  go 
alone,  Mr.  Grimwood."  There  was  no  fear  in  him. 

Grimwood  choked  with  rage.  His  words  came  forth 
with  difficulty,  though  he  roared  them  into  the  silence  of 
the  forest  : — 

"I  pay  you,  don't  I?  You'll  do  what  /  say,  not  what 
you  say  !  "  His  voice  woke  the  echoes. 

The  Indian,  arms  hanging  by  his  side,  gave  the  old 
reply. 

"  I  go  not,"  he  repeated  firmly. 

It  stung  the  other  into  uncontrollable  fury. 

The  beast  then  came  uppermost ;  it  came  out.  "  You've 
said  that  once  too  often,  Tooshalli  ! "  and  he  struck  him 
brutally  in  the  face.  The  Indian  fell,  rose  to  his  knees 
again,  collapsed  sideways  beside  the  fire,  then  struggled 
back  into  a  sitting  position.  He  never  once  took  his  eyes 
from  the  white  man's  face. 

Beside  himself  with  anger,  Grimwood  stood  over  him. 
"Is  that  enough?  Will  you  obey  me  now?  "  he  shouted. 

"I  go  not,"  came  the  thick  reply,  blood  streaming 
from  his  mouth.  The  eyes  had  no  flinching  in  them. 
"That  valley  Ishtot  keep.  Ishtot  see  us  now.  He  see 
you."  The  last  words  he  uttered  with  strange,  almost 
uncanny  emphasis. 

Grimwood,  arm  raised,  fist  clenched,  about  to  repeat 
his  terrible  assault,  paused  suddenly.  His  arm  sank  to 
his  side.  What  exactly  stopped  him  he  could  never  say. 
For  one  thing,  he  feared  his  own  anger,  feared  that  if 
he  let  himself  go  he  would  not  stop  till  he  had  killed — 
committed  murder.  He  knew  his  own  fearful  temper 
and  stood  afraid  of  it.  Yet  it  was  not  only  that.  The 
calm  firmness  of  the  Redskin,  his  courage  under  pain, 
and  something  in  the  fixed  and  burning  eyes  arrested  him. 


The  Valley  of  the  Beasts       121 

Was  it  also  something  in  the  words  he  had  used — "  Ishtot 
see  you  " — that  stung1  him  into  a  queer  caution  midway 
in  his  violence? 

He  could  not  say.  He  only  knew  that  a  momentary 
sense  of  awe  came  over  him.  He  became  unpleasantly 
aware  of  the  enveloping  forest,  so  still,  listening  in  a 
kind  of  impenetrable,  remorseless  silence.  This  lonely 
wilderness,  looking  silently  upon  what  might  easily  prove 
murder,  laid  a  faint,  inexplicable  chill  upon  his  raging 
blood.  The  hand  dropped  slowly  to  his  side  again,  the 
fist  unclenched  itself,  his  breath  came  more  evenly. 

"Look  you  here,"  he  said,  adopting  without  knowing 
it  the  local  way  of  speech.  "I  ain't  a  bad  man,  though 
your  going-on  do  make  a  man  damned  tired.  I'll  give 
you  another  chance."  His  voice  was  sullen,  but  a  new 
note  in  it  surprised  even  himself.  "I'll  do  that.  You 
can  have  the  night  to  think  it  over,  Tooshalli — see? 
Talk  it  over  with  your " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  Somehow  the  name 
of  the  Redskin  God  refused  to  pass  his  lips.  He  turned 
away,  flung  himself  into  his  blankets,  and  in  less  than 
ten  minutes,  exhausted  as  much  by  his  anger  as  by  the 
day's  hard  going,  he  was  sound  asleep. 

The  Indian,  crouching  beside  the  dying1  fire,  had  said 
nothing. 

Night  held  the  woods,  the  sky  was  thick  with  stars, 
the  life  of  the  forest  went  about  its  business  quietly, 
with  that  wondrous  skill  which  millions  of  years  have 
perfected.  The  Redskin,  so  close  to  this  skill  that  he 
instinctively  used  and  borrowed  from  it,  was  silent,  alert 
and  wise,  his  outline  as  inconspicuous  as  though  he 
merged,  like  his  four-footed  teachers,  into  the  mass  of 
the  surrounding  bush. 

He  moved  perhaps,  yet  nothing  knew  he  moved.     His 

wisdom,   derived  from  that  eternal,   ancient  mother  who 

from  infinite  experience  makes  no  mistakes,  did  not  fail 

him.     His  soft  tread  made  no  sound;  his  breathing,  as 

I 


122  The  Wolves  of  God 

his  weight,  was  calculated.  The  stars  observed  him, 
but  they  did  not  tell ;  the  light  air  knew  his  whereabouts, 
yet  without  betrayal.  .  .  . 

The  chill  dawn  gleamed  at  length  between  the  trees, 
lighting  the  pale  ashes  of  an  extinguished  fire,  also  of  a 
bulky,  obvious  form  beneath  a  blanket.  The  form  moved 
clumsily.  The  cold  was  penetrating. 

And  that  bulky  form  now  moved  because  a  dream  had 
come  to  trouble  it.  A  dark  figure  stole  across  its  confused 
field  of  vision.  The  form  started,  but  it  did  not  wake. 
The  figure  spoke:  "Take  this,"  it  whispered,  handing 
a  little  stick,  curiously  carved.  "  It  is  the  totem  of  great 
Ishtot.  In  the  valley  all  memory  of  the  White  Gods 
will  leave  you.  Call  upon  Ishtot.  .  .  .  Call  on  Him  if 
you  dare  "  ;  and  the  dark  figure  glided  away  out  of  the 
dream  and  out  of  all  remembrance.  .  . 


The  first  thing  Grimwood  noticed  when  he  woke  was 
that  Tooshalli  was  not  there.  No  fire  burned,  no  tea  was 
ready.  He  felt  exceedingly  annoyed.  He  glared  about 
him,  then  got  up  with  a  curse  to  make  the  fire.  His 
mind  seemed  confused  and  troubled.  At  first  he  only 
realized  one  thing  clearly — his  guide  had  left  him  in  the 
night. 

It  was  very  cold.  He  lit  the  wood  with  difficulty  .and 
made  his  tea,  and  the  actual  world  came  gradually  back 
to  him.  The  Red  Indian  had  gone ;  perhaps  the  blow, 
perhaps  the  superstitious  terror,  perhaps  both,  had  driven 
him  away.  He  was  alone,  that  was  the  outstanding  fact. 
For  anything  beyond  outstanding  facts,  Grimwood  felt 
little  interest.  Imaginative  speculation  was  beyond  his 
compass.  Close  to  the  brute  creation,  it  seemed,  his 
nature  lay. 

It  was  while  packing  his  blankets — he   did  it  auto- 


The  Valley  of  the  Beasts       123 

matically,  a  dull,  vicious  resentment  in  him— that  his 
fingers  struck  a  bit  of  wood  that  he  was  about  to  throw 
away  when  its  unusual  shape  caught  his  attention  sud- 
denly. His  odd  dream  came  back  then.  But  was  it 
a  dream  ?  The  bit  of  wood  was  undoubtedly  a  totem  stick. 
He  examined  it.  He  paid  it  more  attention  than  he  meant 
to,  wished  to.  Yes,  it  was  unquestionably  a  totem  stick. 
The  dream,  then,  was  not  a  dream.  Tooshalli  had  quit, 
but,  following  with  Redskin  faithfulness  some  code  of  his 
own,  had  left  him  the  means  of  safety.  He  chuckled 
sourly,  but  thrust  the  stick  inside  his  belt.  "One  never 
knows,"  he  mumbled  to  himself. 

He  faced  the  situation  squarely.  He  was  alone  in  the 
wilderness.  His  capable,  experienced  woodsman  had 
deserted  him.  The  situation  was  serious.  What  should 
he  do?  A  weakling  would  certainly  retrace  his  steps, 
following  the  track  they  had  made,  afraid  to  be  left  alone 
in  this  vast  hinterland  of  pathless  forest.  But  Grimwood 
was  of  another  build.  Alarmed  he  might  be,  but  he 
would  not  give  in.  He  had  the  defects  of  his  own 
qualities.  The  brutality  of  his  nature  argued  force.  He 
was  determined  and  a  sportsman.  He  would  go  on. 
And  ten  minutes  after  breakfast,  having  first  made  a 
cache  of  what  provisions  were  left  over,  he  was  on  his 
way — down  across  the  ridge  and  into  the  mysterious 
valley,  the  Valley  of  the  Beasts. 

It  looked,  in  the  morning  sunlight,  entrancing.  The 
trees  closed  in  behind  him,  but  he  did  not  notice.  It  led 
him  on.  .  .  . 

He  followed  the  track  of  the  gigantic  moose  he  meant 
to  kill,  and  the  sweet,  delicious  sunshine  helped  him.  The 
air  was  like  wine,  the  seductive  spoor  of  the  great  beast, 
with  here  and  there  a  faint  splash  of  blood  on  leaves  or 
ground,  lay  forever  just  before  his  eyes.  He  found  the 
valley,  though  the  actual  word  did  not  occur  to  him, 
enticing;  more  and  more  he  noticed  the  beauty,  the 
desolate  grandeur  of  the  mighty  spruce  and  hemlock, 


i24  The  Wolves  of  God 

the  splendour  of  the  granite  bluffs  which  in  places  rose 
above  the  forest  and  caught  the  sun.  .  .  .  The  valley  was 
deeper,  vaster  than  he  had  imagined.  He  felt  safe,  at 
home  in  it,  though,  again,  these  actual  terms  did  not 
occur  to  him.  .  .  .  Here  he  could  hide  for  ever  and  find 
peace.  ...  He  became  aware  of  a  new  quality  in  the 
deep  loneliness.  The  scenery  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  appealed  to  him,  and  the  form  of  the  appeal  was 
curious — he  felt  the  comfort  of  it. 

For  a  man  of  his  habit,  this  was  odd,  yet  the  new 
sensations  stole  over  him  so  gently,  their  approach  so 
gradual,  that  they  were  first  recognized  by  his  conscious- 
ness indirectly.  They  had  already  established  themselves 
in  him  before  he  noticed  them ;  and  the  indirectness  took 
this  form — that  the  passion  of  the  chase  gave  place  to 
an  interest  in  the  valley  itself.  The  lust  of  the  hunt,  the 
fierce  desire  to  find  and  kill,  the  keen  wish,  in  a  word, 
to  see  his  quarry  within  range,  to  aim,  to  fire,  to  witness 
the  natural  consummation  of  the  long  expedition — these 
had  all  become  measurably  less,  while  the  effect  of  the 
valley  upon  him  had  increased  in  strength.  There  was  a 
welcome  about  it  that  he  did  not  understand. 

The  change  was  singular,  yet,  oddly  enough,  it  did 
not  occur  to  him  as  singular ;  it  was  unnatural,  yet  it 
did  not  strike  him  so.  To  a  dull  mind  of  his  unobservant, 
unanalytical  type,  a  change  had  to  be  marked  and  dramatic 
before  he  noticed  it ;  something  in  the  nature  of  a  shock 
must  accompany  it  for  him  to  recognize  it  had  happened. 
And  there  had  been  no  shock.  The  spoor  of  the  great 
moose  was  much  clearer,  now  that  he  caught  up  with  the 
animal  that  made  it ;  the  blood  more  frequent ;  he  had 
noticed  the  spot  where  it  had  rested,  its  huge  body  leav- 
ing a  marked  imprint  on  the  soft  ground;  where  it  had 
reached  up  to  eat  the  leaves  of  saplings  here  and  there 
was  also  visible ;  he  had  come  undoubtedly  very  near  to  it, 
and  any  minute  now  might  see  its  great  bulk  within  range 
of  an  easy  shot.  Yet  his  ardour  had  somehow  lessened. 


The  Valley  of  the  Beasts       125 

He  first  realized  this  change  in  himself  when  it  sud- 
denly occurred  to  him  that  the  animal  itself  had  grown 
less  cautious.  It  must  scent  him  easily  now,  since  a 
moose,  its  sight  being  indifferent,  depends  chiefly  for  its 
safety  upon  its  unusually  keen  sense  of  smell,  and  the 
wind  came  from  behind  him.  This  now  struck  him  as 
decidedly  uncommon :  the  moose  itself  was  obviously 
careless  of  his  close  approach.  It  felt  no  fear. 

It  was  this  inexplicable  alteration  in  the  animal's 
behaviour  that  made  him  recognize,  at  last,  the  alteration 
in  his  own.  He  had  followed  it  now  for  a  couple  of 
hours  and  had  descended  some  eight  hundred  to  a  thou- 
sand feet;  the  trees  were  thinner  and  more  sparsely 
placed ;  there  were  open,  park-like  places  where  silver 
birch,  sumach  and  maple  splashed  their  blazing  colours ; 
and  a  crystal  stream,  broken  by  many  waterfalls,  foamed 
past  towards  the  bed  of  the  great  valley,  yet  another 
thousand  feet  below.  By  a  quiet  pool  against  some  over- 
arching rocks,  the  moose  had  evidently  paused  to  drink, 
paused  at  its  leisure,  moreover.  Grimwood,  rising  from 
a  close  examination  of  the  direction  the  creature  had 
taken  after  drinking — the  hoof-marks  were  fresh  and  very 
distinct  in  the  marshy  ground  about  the  pool — looked 
suddenly  straight  into  the  great  creature's  eyes.  It  was 
not  twenty  yards  from  where  he  stood,  yet  he  had  been 
standing  on  that  spot  for  at  least  ten  minutes,  caught  by 
the  wonder  and  loneliness  of  the  scene.  The  moose, 
therefore,  had  been  close  beside  him  all  this  time.  It  had 
been  calmly  drinking,  undisturbed  by  his  presence, 
unafraid. 

The  shock  came  now,  the  shock  that  woke  his  heavy 
nature  into  realization.  For  some  seconds,  probably  for 
minutes,  he  stood  rooted  to  the  ground,  motionless, 
hardly  breathing.  He  stared  as  though  he  saw  a  vision. 
The  animal's  head  was  lowered,  but  turned  obliquely 
somewhat,  so  that  the  eyes,  placed  sideways  in  its  great 
head,  could  see  him  properly ;  its  immense  proboscis  hung 


i26  The  Wolves  of  God 

as  though  stuffed  upon  an  English  wall ;  he  saw  the  fore- 
feet planted  wide  apart,  the  slope  of  the  enormous 
shoulders  dropping  back  towards  the  fine  hind-quarters 
and  lean  flanks.  It  was  a  magnificent  bull.  The  horns 
and  head  justified  his  wildest  expectations,  they  were 
superb,  a  record  specimen,  and  a  phrase — where  had  he 
heard  it? — ran  vaguely,  as  from  far  distance,  through  his 
mind  :  "the  biggest  moose  in  the  world." 

There  was  the  extraordinary  fact,  however,  that  he 
did  not  shoot ;  nor  feel  the  wish  to  shoot.  The  familiar 
instinct,  so  strong  hitherto  in  his  blood,  made  no  sign  ; 
the  desire  to  kill  apparently  had  left  him.  To  raise  his 
rifle,  aim  and  fire  had  become  suddenly  an  absolute 
impossibility. 

He  did  not  move.  The  animal  and  the  human  stared 
into  each  other's  eyes  for  a  length  of  time  whose  interval 
he  could  not  measure.  Then  came  a  soft  noise  close 
beside  him  :  the  rifle  had  slipped  from  his  grasp  and 
fallen  with  a  thud  into  the  mossy  earth  at  his  feet.  And 
the  moose,  for  the  first  time  now,  was  moving.  With 
slow,  easy  stride,  its  great  weight  causing  a  squelching 
sound  as  the  feet  drew  out  of  the  moist  ground,  it  came 
towards  him,  the  bulk  of  the  shoulders  giving  it  an 
appearance  of  swaying  like  a  ship  at  sea.  It  reached  his 
side,  it  almost  touched  him,  the  magnificent  head  bent 
low,  the  spread  of  the  gigantic  horns  lay  beneath  his  very 
eyes.  He  could  have  patted,  stroked  it.  He  saw,  with  a 
touch  of  pity,  that  blood  trickled  from  a  sore  in  its  left 
shoulder,  matting  the  thick  hair.  It  sniffed  the  fallen  rifle. 

Then,  lifting  its  head  and  shoulders  again,  it  sniffed 
the  air,  this  time  with  an  audible  sound  that  shook  from 
Grimwood's  mind  the  last  possibility  that  he  witnessed  a 
vision  or  dreamed  a  dream.  One  moment  it  gazed  into 
his  face,  its  big  brown  eyes  shining  and  unafraid,  then 
turned  abruptly,  and  swung  away  at  a  speed  ever  rapidly 
increasing  across  the  park-like  spaces  till  it  was  lost 
finally  among  the  dark  tangle  of  undergrowth  beyond. 


The  Valley  of  the  Beasts       127 

And  the  Englishman's  muscles  turned  to  paper,  his 
paralysis  passed,  his  legs  refused  to  support  his  weight, 
and  he  sank  heavily  to  the  ground.  .  .  . 


It  seems  he  slept,  slept  long  and  heavily  ;  he  sat  up, 
stretched  himself,  yawned  and  rubbed  his  eyes.  The  sun 
had  moved  across  the  sky,  for  the  shadows,  he  saw,  now 
ran  from  west  to  east,  and  they  were  long  shadows.  He 
had  slept  evidently  for  hours,  and  evening  was  drawing 
in.  He  was  aware  that  he  felt  hungry.  In  his  pouch- 
like  pockets  he  had  dried  meat,  sugar,  matches,  tea,  and 
the  little  billy  that  never  left  him.  He  would  make  a  fire, 
boil  some  tea  and  eat. 

But  he  took  no  steps  to  carry  out  his  purpose,  he  felt 
disinclined  to  move,  he  sat  thinking,  thinking.  .  .  .  What 
was  he  thinking  about?  He  did  not  know,  he  could  not 
say  exactly ;  it  was  more  like  fugitive  pictures  that  passed 
across  his  mind.  Who,  and  where,  was  he?  This  was 
the  Valley  of  the  Beasts,  that  he  knew;  he  felt  sure  of 
nothing  else.  How  long  had  he  been  here,  and  where  had 
he  come  from,  and  why?  The  questions  did  not  linger  for 
their  answers,  almost  .as  though  his  interest  in  them  was 
merely  automatic.  He  felt  happy,  peaceful,  unafraid. 

He  looked  about  him,  and  the  spell  of  this  virgin  forest 
came  upon  him  like  a  charm ;  only  the  sound  of  falling 
water,  the  murmur  of  wind  sighing  among  innumerable 
branches,  broke  the  enveloping  silence.  Overhead,  beyond 
the  crests  of  the  towering  trees,  a  cloudless  evening  sky 
was  paling  into  transparent  orange,  opal,  mother  of  pearl. 
He  saw  buzzards  soaring  lazily.  A  scarlet  tanager  flashed 
by.  Soon  would  the  owls  begin  to  call  and  the  darkness 
fall  like  a  sweet  black  veil  and  hide  all  detail,  while  the 
stars  sparkled  in  their  countless  thousands.  .  .  . 

A    glint   of   something  that    shone    upon   the   ground 


128  The  Wolves  of  God 

caught  his  eye — a  smooth,  polished  strip  of  rounded 
metal :  his  rifle.  And  he  started  to  his  feet  impulsively, 
yet  not  knowing  exactly  what  he  meant  to  do.  At  the 
sight  of  the  weapon,  something  had  leaped  to  life  in  him, 
then  faded  out,  died  down,  and  was  gone  again. 

"I'm — I'm "  he  began  muttering  to  himself,  but 

could  not  finish  what  he  was  about  to  say.  His  name  had 
disappeared  completely.  "I'm  in  the  Valley  of  the 
Beasts,"  he  repeated  in  place  of  what  he  sought  but  could 
not  find. 

This  fact,  that  he  was  in  the  Valley  of  the  Beasts, 
seemed  the  only  positive  item  of  knowledge  that  he  had. 
About  the  name  something  known  and  familiar  clung, 
though  the  sequence  that  led  up  to  it  he  could  not  trace. 
Presently,  nevertheless,  he  rose  to  his  feet,  advanced  a 
few  steps,  stooped  and  picked  up  the  shining  metal  thing, 
his  rifle.  He  examined  it  a  moment,  a  feeling  of  dread 
and  loathing  rising  in  him,  a  sensation  of  almost  horror 
that  made  him  tremble,  then,  with  a  convulsive  movement 
that  betrayed  an  intense  reaction  of  some  sort  he  could  not 
comprehend,  he  flung  the  thing  far  from  him  into  the 
foaming  torrent.  He  saw  the  splash  it  made,  he  also  saw 
that  same  instant  a  large  grizzly  bear  swing  heavily  along 
the  bank  not  a  dozen  yards  from  where  he  stood.  It,  too, 
heard  the  splash,  for  it  started,  turned,  paused  a  second, 
then  changed  its  direction  and  came  towards  him.  It 
came  up  close.  Its  fur  brushed  his  body.  It  examined 
him  leisurely,  as  the  moose  had  done,  sniffed,  half  rose 
upon  its  terrible  hind  legs,  opened  its  mouth  so  that  red 
tongue  and  gleaming  teeth  were  plainly  visible,  then 
flopped  back  upon  all  fours  again  with  a  deep  growling 
that  yet  had  no  anger  in  it,  and  swung  off  at  a  quick  trot 
back  to  the  bank  of  the  torrent.  He  had  felt  its  hot 
breath  upon  his  face,  but  he  had  felt  no  fear.  The 
monster  was  puzzled  but  not  hostile.  It  disappeared. 

"They  know  not "  he  sought  for  the  word  "man," 

but  could  not  find  it.     "They  have  never  been  hunted." 


The  Valley  of  the  Beasts       129 

The  words  ran  through  his  mind,  if  perhaps  he  was  not 
entirely  certain  of  their  meaning;  they  rose,  as  it  were, 
automatically ;  a  familiar  sound  lay  in  them  somewhere. 
At  the  same  time  there  rose  feeling's  in  him  that  were 
equally,  though  in  another  way,  familiar  and  quite 
natural,  feelings  he  had  once  known  intimately  but  long 
since  laid  aside. 

What  were  they?  What  was  their  origin?  They 
seemed  distant  as  the  stars,  yet  were  actually  in  his  body, 
in  his  blood  and  nerves,  part  and  parcel  of  his  flesh. 
Long,  long  ago.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  long,  how  long? 

Thinking  was  difficult;  feeling  was  what  he  most 
easily  and  naturally  managed.  He  could  not  think  for 
long ;  feeling  rose  up  and  drowned  the  effort  quickly. 

That  huge  and  awful  bear — not  a  nerve,  not  a  muscle 
quivered  in  him  as  its  acrid  smell  rose  to  his  nostrils,  its 
fur  brushed  down  his  legs.  Yet  he  was  aware  that  some- 
where there  was  danger,  though  not  here.  Somewhere 
there  was  attack,  hostility,  wicked  and  calculated  plans 
against  him — as  against  that  splendid,  roaming  animal 
that  had  sniffed,  examined,  then  gone  its  own  way,  satis- 
fied. Yes,  active  attack,  hostility  and  careful,  cruel  plans 
against  his  safety,  but — not  here.  Here  he  was  safe, 
secure,  at  peace ;  here  he  was  happy ;  here  he  could  roam 
at  will,  no  eye  cast  sideways  into  forest  depths,  no  ear 
pricked  high  to  catch  sounds  not  explained,  no  nostrils 
quivering  to  scent  alarm.  He  felt  this,  but  he  did  not 
think  it.  He  felt  hungry,  thirsty  too. 

Something  prompted  him  now  at  last  to  act.  His  billy 
lay  at  his  feet,  and  he  picked  it  up;  the  matches — he 
carried  them  in  a  metal  case  whose  screw  top  kept  out  all 
moisture — were  in  his  hand.  Gathering  a  few  dry  twigs, 
he  stooped  to  light  them,  then  suddenly  drew  back  with 
the  first  touch  of  fear  he  had  yet  known. 

Fire  !  What  was  fire?  The  idea  was  repugnant  to 
him,  it  wras  impossible,  he  was  afraid  of  fire.  He  flung 
the  metal  case  after  the  rifle  and  saw  it  gleam  in  the  last 


130  The  Wolves  of  God 

rays  of  sunset,  then  sink  with  a  little  splash  beneath  the 
water.  Glancing  down  at  his  billy,  he  realized  next  that 
he  could  not  make  use  of  it  either,  nor  of  the  dark  dry 
dusty  stuff  he  had  meant  to  boil  in  water.  He  felt  no 
repugnance,  certainly  no  fear,  in  connexion  with  these 
things,  only  he  could  not  handle  them,  he  did  not  need 
them,  he  had  forgotten,  yes,  "forgotten,"  what  they  meant 
exactly.  This  strange  forgetfulness  was  increasing  in  him 
rapidly,  becoming  more  and  more  complete  with  every 
minute.  Yet  his  thirst  must  be  quenched. 

The  next  moment  he  found  himself  at  the  water's 
edge;  he  stooped  to  fill  his  billy;  paused,  hesitated, 
examined  the  rushing  water,  then  abruptly  moved  a  few 
feet  higher  up  the  stream,  leaving  the  metal  can  behind 
him,.  His  handling  of  it  had  been  oddly  clumsy,  his 
gestures  awkward,  even  unnatural.  He  now  flung  him- 
self down  with  an  easy,  simple  motion  of  his  entire  body, 
lowered  his  face  to  a  quiet  pool  he  had  found,  and  drank 
his  fill  of  the  cool,  refreshing  liquid.  But,  though  un- 
aware of  the  fact,  he  did  not  drink.  He  lapped. 

Then,  crouching  where  he  was,  he  ate  the  meat  and 
sugar  from  his  pockets,  lapped  more  water,  moved  back  a 
short  distance  again  into  the  dry  ground  beneath  the  trees, 
but  moved  this  time  without  rising  to  his  feet,  curled  his 
body  into  a  comfortable  position  and  closed  his  eyes 
again  to  sleep.  .  .  .  No  single  question  now  raised  its 
head  in  him.  He  felt  contentment,  satisfaction  only.  .  .  . 

He  stirred,  shook  himself,  opened  half  an  eye  and  saw, 
as  he  had  felt  already  in  slumber,  that  he  was  not  alone. 
In  the  park-like  spaces  in  front  of  him,  as  in  the  shadowed 
fringe  of  the  trees  at  his  back,  there  was  sound  and 
movement,  the  sound  of  stealthy  feet,  the  movement 
pf  innumerable  dark  bodies.  There  was  the  pad  and 
tread  of  animals,  the  stir  of  backs,  of  smooth  and  shaggy 
beasts,  in  countless  numbers.  Upon  this  host  fell  the  light 
of  a  half  moon  sailing  high  in  a  cloudless  sky ;  the  gleam 
of  stars,  sparkling  in  the  clear  night  air  like  diamonds, 


The  Valley  of  the  Beasts        131 

shone  reflected  in  hundreds  of  ever-shifting  eyes,  most  of 
them  but  a  few  feet  above  the  ground.  The  whole  valley 
was  alive. 

He  sat  upon  his  haunches,  staring,  staring,  but  staring 
in  wonder,  not  in  fear,  though  the  foremost  of  the  great 
host  were  so  near  that  he  could  have  stretched  an  arm  and 
touched  them.  It  was  an  ever-moving,  ever-shifting 
throng  he  gazed  at,  spell-bound,  in  the  pale  light  of  moon 
and  stars,  now  fading  slowly  towards  the  approaching 
dawn.  And  the  smell  of  the  forest  itself  was  not  sweeter 
to  him  in  that  moment  than  the  mingled  perfume,  raw, 
pungent,  acrid,  of  this  furry  host  of  beautiful  wild  animals 
that  moved  like  a  sea,  with  a  strange  murmuring,  too, 
like  sea,  as  the  myriad  feet  and  bodies  passed  to  and  fro 
together.  Nor  wasi  the  gleam  of  the  starry,  phos- 
phorescent eyes  less  pleasantly  friendly  than  those  happy 
lamps  that  light  home-lost  wanderers  to  cosy  rooms  and 
safety.  Through  the  wild  army,  in  a  word,  poured  to 
him  the  deep  comfort  of  the  entire  valley,  a  comfort  which 
held  both  the  sweetness  of  invitation  and  the  welcome  of 
some  magical  home-coming. 

No  thoughts  came  to  him,  but  feeling  rose  in  a  tide  of 
wonder  and  acceptance.  He  was  in  his  rightful  place. 
His  nature  had  come  home.  There  was  this  dim,  vague 
consciousness  in  him  that  after  long,  futile  straying  in 
another  place  where  uncongenial  conditions  had  forced 
him  to  be  unnatural  and  therefore  terrible,  he  had  re- 
turned at  last  where  he  belonged.  Here,  in  the  Valley  of 
the  Beasts,  he  had  found  peace,  security  and  happiness. 
He  would  be — he  was  at  last — himself. 

It  was  a  marvellous,  even  a  magical,  scene  he  watched, 
his  nerves  at  highest  tension  yet  quite  steady,  his  senses 
exquisitely  alert,  yet  no  uneasiness  in  the  full,  accurate 
reports  they  furnished.  Strong  as  some  deep  flood-tide, 
yet  dim,  as  with  untold  time  and  distance,  rose  over  him 
the  spell  of  long-forgotten  memory  of  a  state  where  he 
was  content  and  happy,  where  he  was  natural.  The  out- 


132  The  Wolves  of  God 

lines,  a.9  it  were,  of  mighty,  primitive  pictures,  flashed 
before  him,  yet  were  gone  again  before  the  detail  was 
filled  in. 

He  watched  the  great  army  of  the  animals,  they  were 
all  about  Him  now ;  he  crouched  upon  his  haunches  in  the 
centre  of  an  ever-moving  circle  of  wild  forest  life.  Great 
timber  wolves  he  saw  pass  to  and  fro,  loping  past  him 
with  long  stride  and  graceful  swing;  their  red  tongues 
lolling  out;  they  swarmed  in  hundreds.  Behind,  yet 
mingling  freely  with  them,  rolled  the  huge  grizzlies,  not 
clumsy  as  their  uncouth  bodies  promised,  but  swiftly, 
lightly,  easily,  their  half  tumbling  gait  masking  agility 
and  speed.  They  gambolled,  sometimes  they  rose  and 
stood  half  upright,  they  were  comely  in  their  mass  and 
power,  they  rolled  past  him  so  close  that  he  could  touch 
them.  And  the  black  bear  and  the  brown  went  with  them, 
bears  beyond  counting,  monsters  and  little  ones,  a  splendid 
multitude.  Beyond  them,  yet  only  a  little  further  back, 
where  the  park-like  spaces  made  free  movement  easier, 
rose  a  sea  of  horns  and  antlers  like  a  miniature  forest  in 
the  silvery  moonlight.  The  immense  tribe  of  deer 
gathered  in  vast  throngs  beneath  the  starlit  sky.  Moose 
and  caribou,  he  saw,  the  mighty  wapiti,  and  the  smaller 
deer  in  their  crowding  thousands.  He  heard  the  sound  of 
meeting  horns,  the  tread  of  innumerable  hoofs,  the  occa- 
sional pawing  of  the  ground  as  the  bigger  creatures 
manoeuvred  for  more  space  about  them.  A  wolf,  he  saw, 
was  licking  gently  at  the  shoulder  of  a  great  bull-moose 
that  had  been  injured.  And  the  tide  receded,  advanced 
again,  once  more  receded,  rising  and  falling  like  a  living 
sea  whose  waves  were  animal  shapes,  the  inhabitants  of 
the  Valley  of  the  Beasts. 

Beneath  the  quiet  moonlight  they  swayed  to  and  fro 
before  him.  They  watched  him,  knew  him,  recognized 
him.  They  made  him  welcome. 

He  was  aware,  moreover,  of  a  world  of  smaller  life  that 
formed  an  under-sea,  as  it  were,  numerous  under-currents 


The  Valley  of  the  Beasts       133 

rather,  running  in  and  out  between  the  great  upright  legs 
of  the  larger  creatures.  These,  though  he  could  not  see 
them  clearly,  covered  the  earth,  he  was  aware,  in  enormous 
numbers,  darting  hither  and  thither,  now  hiding,  now  re- 
appearing, too  intent  upon  their  busy  purposes  to  pay  him 
attention  like  their  huger  comrades,  yet  ever  and  anon 
tumbling  against  his  back,  cannoning  from  his  sides, 
scampering  across  his  legs  even,  then  gone  again  with  a 
scuttering  sound  of  rapid  little  feet,  and  rushing  back  into 
the  general  host  beyond.  And  with  this  smaller  world 
also  he  felt  at  home. 

How  long  he  sat  gazing,  happy  in  himself,  secure, 
satisfied,  contented,  natural,  he  could  not  gay,  but  it  was 
long  enough  for  the  desire  to  mingle  with  what  he  saw, 
to  know  closer  contact,  to  become  one  with  them  all — 
long  enough  for  this  deep  blind  desire  to  assert  itself,  so 
that  at  length  he  began  to  move  from  his  mossy  seat 
towards  them,  to  move,  moreover,  as  they  moved,  and 
not  upright  on  two  feet. 

The  moon  was  lower  now,  just  sinking  behind  a  tower- 
ing cedar  whose  ragged  crest  broke  its  light  into  silvery 
spray.  The  stars  were  a  little  paler  too.  A  line  of  faint 
red  was  visible  beyond  the  heights  at  the  valley's  eastern 
end. 

He  paused  and  looked  about  him,  as  he  advanced 
slowly,  aware  that  the  host  already  made  an  opening  in 
their  ranks  and  that  the  bear  even  nosed  the  earth  in  front, 
as  though  to  show  the  way  that  was  easiest  for  him  to 
follow.  Then,  suddenly,  a  lynx  leaped  past  him  into  the 
low  branches  of  a  hemlock,  and  he  lifted  his  head  to 
admire  its  perfect  poise.  He  saw  in  the  same  instant  the 
arrival  of  the  birds,  the  army  of  the  eagles,  hawks  and 
buzzards,  birds  of  prey — the  awakening  flight  that  just 
precedes  the  dawn.  He  saw  the  flocks  and  streaming 
lines,  hiding  the  whitening  stars  a  moment  as  they  passed 
with  a  prodigious  whirr  of  wings.  There  came  the  hoot- 
ing of  an  owl  from  the  tree  immediately  overhead  where 


i34  The  Wolves  of  God 

the  lynx  now  crouched,  but  not  maliciously,  along  its 
branch. 

He  started.  He  half  rose  to  an  upright  position.  He 
knew  not  why  he  did  so,  knew  not  exactly  why  he  started. 
But  in  the  attempt  to  find  his  new,  and,  as  it  now  seemed, 
his  unaccustomed  balance,  one  hand  fell  against  his  side 
and  came  in  contact  with  a  hard  straight  thing  that  pro- 
jected awkwardly  from  his  clothing.  He  pulled  it  out, 
feeling  it  all  over  with  his  fingers.  It  was  a  little  stick. 
He  raised  it  nearer  to  his  eyes,  examined  it  in  the  light 
of  dawn  now  growing  swiftly,  remembered,  or  half 
remembered  what  it  was — and  stood  stock  still. 

"The  totem  stick,"  he  mumbled  to  himself,  yet  audibly, 
finding  his  speech,  and  finding  another  thing — a  glint  of 
peering  memory — for  the  first  time  since  entering  the 
valley. 

A  shock  like  fire  ran  through  his  body ;  he  straightened 
himself,  aware  that  a  moment  before  he  had  been  crawling 
upon  his  hands  and  knees;  it  seemed  that  something 
broke  in  his  brain,  lifting  a  veil,  flinging  a  shutter  free. 
And  Memory  peered  dreadfully  through  the  widening 
gap. 

"I'm — I'm  Grimwood,"  his  voice  uttered,  though 
below  his  breath,  "Tooshalli's  left  me.  I'm  alone.  .  .  !  " 

He  was  aware  of  a  sudden  change  in  the  animals  sur- 
rounding him.  A  big,  grey  wolf  sat  three  feet  away,  glaring 
into  his  face ;  at  its  side  an  enormous  grizzly  swayed  itself 
from  one  foot  to  the  other ;  behind  it,  as  if  looking  over  its 
shoulder,  loomed  a  gigantic  wapiti,  its  horns  merged  in 
the  shadows  of  the  drooping  cedar  boughs.  But  the 
northern  dawn  was  nearer,  the  sun  already  close  to  the 
horizon.  He  saw  details  with  sharp  distinctness  now. 
The  great  bear  rose,  balancing  a  moment  on  its  massive 
hind-quarters,  then  took  a  step  towards  him,  its  front 
paws  spread  like  arms.  Its  wicked  head  lolled  horribly, 
as  a  huge  bull-moose,  lowering  its  horns  as  if  about  to 
charge,  came  up  with  a  couple  of  long  strides  and  joined 


The  Valley  of  the  Beasts       135 

it.  A  sudden  excitement  ran  quivering  over  the  entire 
host ;  the  distant  ranks  moved  in  a  new,  unpleasant  way ; 
a  thousand  heads  were  lifted,  ears  were  pricked,  a  forest 
of  ugly  muzzles  pointed  up  to  the  wind. 

And  the  Englishman,  beside  himself  suddenly  with  a 
sense  of  ultimate  terror  that  saw  no  possible  escape, 
stiffened  and  stood  rigid.  The  horror  of  his  position 
petrified  him.  Motionless  and  silent  he  faced  the  awful 
army  of  his  enemies,  while  the  white  light  of  breaking  day 
added  fresh  ghastliness  to  the  scene  which  was  the  setting 
for  his  cruel  death  in  the  Valley  of  the  Beasts. 

Above  him,  crouched  the  hideous  lynx,  ready  to  spring 
the  instant  he  sought  safety  in  the  tree ;  above  it  again, 
he  was  aware  of  a  thousand  talonsi  of  steel,  fierce  hooked 
beaks  of  iron,  and  the  angry  beating  of  prodigious 
wings. 

He  reeled,  for  the  grizzly  touched  his  body  with  its 
outstretched  paw ;  the  wolf  crouched  just  before  its  deadly 
spring;  in  another  second  he  would  have  been  torn  to 
pieces,  crushed,  devoured,  when  terror,  operating"  natur- 
ally as  ever,  released  the  muscles  of  his  throat  and  tongue. 
He  shouted  with  what  he  believed  was  his  last  breath  on 
earth.  He  called  aloud  in  his  frenzy.  It  was  a  prayer  to 
whatever  gods  there  be,  it  was  an  anguished  cry  for  help 
to  heaven. 

"  Ishtot  !  Great  Ishtot,  help  me  ! "  his  voice  rang 
out,  while  his  hand  still  clutched  the  forgotten  totem 
stick. 

And  the  Red  Heaven  heard  him. 

Grimwood  that  same  instant  was  aware  of  a  presence 
that,  but  for  his  terror  of  the  beasts,  must  have  frightened 
him  into  sheer  unconsciousness.  A  gigantic  Red  Indian 
stood  before  him.  Yet,  while  the  figure  rose  close  in 
front  of  him,  causing  the  birds  to  settle  and  the  wild 
animals  to  crouch  quietly  where  they  stood,  it  rose  also 
from  a  great  distance,  for  it  seemed  to  fill  the  entire  valley 
with  its  influence,  its  power,  its  amazing  majesty.  In 


136  The  Wolves  of  God 

some  way,  moreover,  that  he  could  not  understand,  its 
vast  appearance  included  the  actual  valley  itself  with  all 
its  trees,  its  running"  streams,  its  open  spaces  and 
its  rocky  bluffs.  These  marked  its  outline,  as  it  were, 
the  outline  of  a  superhuman  shape.  There  was  a  mighty 
bow,  there  was  a  quiver  of  enormous  arrows,  there  was 
this  Redskin  figure  to  whom  they  belonged. 

Yet  the  appearance,  the  outline,  the  face  and  figure  too 
— these  were  the  valley ;  and  when  the  voice  became 
audible,  it  was  the  valley  itself  that  uttered  the  appalling 
words.  It  was  the  voice  of  trees  and  wind,  and  of  run- 
ning, falling  water  that  woke  the  echoes  in  the  Valley  of 
the  Beasts,  as,  in  that  same  moment,  the  sun  topped  the 
ridge  and  filled  the  scene,  the  outline  of  the  majestic 
figure  too,  with  a  flood  of  dazzling  light : 

"You  have  shed  blood  in  this  my  valley.  .  .  .  /  will 
not  save.  .  .  \  " 

The  figure  melted  away  into  the  sunlit  forest,  merging 
with  the  new-born  day.  But  Grimwood  saw  close  against 
his  face  the  shining  teeth,  hot  fetid  breath  passed  over 
his  cheeks,  a  power  enveloped  his  whole  body  as  though 
a  mountain  crushed  him.  He  closed  his  eyes.  He  fell. 
A  sharp,  crackling  sound  passed  through  his  brain,  but 
already  unconscious,  he  did  not  hear  it. 

His  eyes  opened  again,  and  the  first  thing  they  took 
in  was — fire.  He  shrank  back  instinctively. 

"It's  all  right,  old  man.  We'll  bring  you  round. 
Nothing  to  be  frightened  about."  He  saw  the  face  of 
Iredale  looking  down  into  his  own.  Behind  Iredale  stood 
Tooshalli.  His  face  was  swollen.  Grimwood  remem- 
bered the  blow.  The  big  man  began  to  cry. 

"Painful  still,  is  it?"  Iredale  said  sympathetically. 
"Here,  swallow  a  little  more  of  this.  It'll  set  you  right 
in  no  time." 

Grimwood  gulped  down  the  spirit.  He  made  a  violent 
effort  to  control  himself,  but  was  unable  to  keep  the  tears 


The  Valley  of  the  Beasts       137 

back.  He  felt  no  pain.  It  was  his  heart  that  ached, 
though  why  or  wherefore,  he  had  no  idea. 

"I'm  all  to  pieces,"  he  mumbled,  ashamed  yet  some- 
how not  ashamed.  "My  nerves  are  rotten.  What's 
happened?  "  There  was  as  yet  no  memory  in  him. 

"You've  been  hugged  by  a  bear,  old  man.  But  no 
bones  broken.  Tooshalli  saved  you.  He  fired  in  the  nick 
of  time — a  brave  shot,  for  he  might  easily  have  hit  you 
instead  of  the  brute." 

"The  other  brute,"  whispered  Grim  wood,  as  the 
whisky  worked  in  him  and  memory  came  slowly 
back. 

"  Where  are  we  ?  "  he  asked  presently,  looking  about 
him. 

He  saw  a  lake,  canoes  drawn  up  on  the  shore,  two 
tents,  and  figures  moving.  Iredale  explained  matters 
briefly,  then  left  him  to  sleep  a  bit.  Tooshalli,  it 
appeared,  travelling  without  rest,  had  reached  Iredale's 
camping  ground  twenty-four  hours  after  leaving  his 
employer.  He  found  it  deserted,  Iredale  and  his  Indian 
being  on  the  hunt.  When  they  returned  at  nightfall,  he 
had  explained  his  presence  in  his  brief  native  fashion  : 
"He  struck  me  and  I  quit.  He  hunt  now  alone  in  Ishtot's 
Valley  of  the  Beasts.  He  is  dead,  I  think.  I  come  to 
tell  you." 

Iredale  and  his  guide,  with  Tooshalli  as  leader,  started 
off  then  and  there,  but  Grimwood  had  covered  a  con- 
siderable distance,  though  leaving  an  easy  track  to  follow. 
It  was  the  moose  tracks  and  the  blood  that  chiefly  guided 
them.  They  came  up  with  him  suddenly  enough — in  the 
grip  of  an  enormous  bear. 

It  was  Tooshalli  that  fired. 

The  Indian  lives  now  in  easy  circumstances,   all  his 

needs  cared  for,  while  Grimwood,  his  benefactor  but  no 

longer  his  employer,  has  given  up  hunting.    He  is  a  quiet, 

easy-tempered,   almost  gentle  sort  of  fellow,   and  people 

J 


138  The  Wolves  of  God 

wonder  rather  why  he  hasn't  married.  "  Just  the  fellow 
to  make  a  good  father,"  is  what  they  say;  "so  kind, 
good-natured  and  affectionate."  Among-  his  pipes,  in  a 
glass  case  over  the  mantelpiece,  hangs  a  totem  stick.  He 
declares  it  saved  his  soul,  but  what  he  means  by  the 
expression  he  has  never  quite  explained. 


VII 

THE  CALL 

THE  incident — story  it  never  was,  perhaps — began  tamely, 
almost  meanly ;  it  ended  upon  a  note  of  strange,  unearthly 
wonder  that  has  haunted  him  ever  since.  In  Headley's 
memory,  at  any  rate,  it  stands  out  as  the  loveliest,  the 
most  amazing  thing  he  ever  witnessed.  Other  emotions, 
too,  contributed  to  the  vividness  of  the  picture.  That  he 
had  felt  jealousy  towards  his  old  pal,  Arthur  Deane, 
shocked  him  in  the  first  place ;  it  seemed  impossible  until 
it  actually  happened.  But  that  the  jealousy  was  proved 
afterwards  to  have  been  without  a  cause  shocked  him  still 
more.  He  felt  ashamed  and  miserable. 

For  him,  the  actual  incident  began  when  he  received 
a  note  from  Mrs.  Blond  in  asking  him  to  the  Priory  for  a 
week-end,  or  for  longer,  if  he  could  manage  it. 

Captain  Arthur  Deane,  she  mentioned,  was  staying 
with  her  at  the  moment,  and  a  warm  welcome  awaited 
him.  Iris  she  did  not  mention — Iris  Manning,  the  in- 
teresting and  beautiful  girl  for  whom  it  was  well  known  he 
had  a  considerable  weakness.  He  fooind  a  good-sized 
house  party ;  there  was  fishing  in  the  little  Sussex  river, 
tennis,  golf  not  far  away,  while  two1  motor  cars  brought 
the  remoter  country  across  the  downs  into  easy  reach. 
Also  there  was  a  bit  of  duck  shooting  for  those  who 
cared  to  wake  at  3  a.m.  and  paddle  up-stream  to  the 
marshes  where  the  birds  were  feeding. 

"Have  you  brought  your  gun?"  was  the  first  thing 
Arthur  said  to  him  when  he  arrived.  "Like  a  fool,  I 
left  mine  in  town." 

139 


140  The  Wolves  of  God 

"I  hope  you  haven't,"  put  in  Miss  Manning;  "be- 
cause if  you  have  I  must  get  up  one  fine  morning  at  three 
o'clock."  She  laughed  merrily,  and  there  was  an  under- 
note  of  excitement  in  the  laugh. 

Captain  Headley  showed  his  surprise.  "That  you 
were  a  Diana  had  escaped  my  notice,  I'm  ashamed  to 
say,"  he  replied  lightly.  "  Yet  I've  known  you  some  years, 
haven't  I?"  He  looked  straight  at  her,  and  the  soft 
yet  searching  eye,  turning  from  his  friend,  met  his  own 
securely.  She  was  appraising  him,  for  the  hundredth 
time,  and  he,  for  the  hundredth  time,  was  thinking  how 
pretty  she  was,  and  wondering  how  long  the  prettiness 
would  last  after  marriage. 

"I'm  not,"  he  heard  her  answer.  "That's  just  it. 
But  I've  promised." 

"Rather!  "  said  Arthur  gallantly.  "And  I  shall  hold 
you  to  it,"  he  added  still  more  gallantly — too  gallantly, 
Headley  thought.  "I  couldn't  possibly  get  up  at  cock- 
crow without  a  very  special  inducement,  could  I,  now? 
You  know  me,  Dick  !  " 

"Well,  anyhow,  I've  brought  my  gun,"  Headley  re- 
plied evasively,  "so  you've  no  excuse,  either  of  you. 
You'll  have  to  go."  And  while  they  were  laughing  and 
chattering  about  it,  Mrs.  Blondin  clinched  the  matter  for 
them.  Provisions  were  hard  to  come  by ;  the  larder  really 
needed  a  brace  or  two  of  birds ;  it  was  the  least  they  could 
do  in  return  for  what  she  called  amusingly  her  "Armistice 
hospitality." 

"So  I  expect  you  to  get  up  at  three."  she  chaffed 
them,  "and  return  with  your  Victory  birds." 

It  was  from  this  preliminary  skirmish  over  the  tea- 
table  on  the  lawn  five  minutes  after  his  arrival  that  Dick 
Headley  realized  easily  enough  the  little  game  in  progress. 
As  a  man  of  experience,  just  on  the  wrong  side  of  forty, 
it  was  not  difficult  to  see  the  cards  each  held.  He  sighed. 
Had  he  guessed  an  intrigue  was  on  foot  he  would  not 
have  come,  yet  he  might  have  known  that  wherever  his 


The  Call  141 

hostess  was,  there  were  the  vultures  gathered  together. 
Matchmaker  by  choice  and  instinct,  Mrs.  Blondin  could 
not  help  herself.  True  to  her  name,  she  was  always 
balancing  on  matrimonial  tightropes — for  others. 

Her  cards,  at  any  rate,  were  obvious  enough ;  she 
had  laid  them  on  the  table  for  him.  He  easily  read 
her  hand.  The  next  twenty-four  hours  confirmed  this 
reading.  Having"  made  up  her  mind  that  Iris  and  Arthur 
were  destined  for  each  other,  she  had  grown  impatient; 
they  had  been  ten  days  together,  yet  Iris  was  still  free. 
They  were  good  friends  only.  Wiith  calculation,  she, 
therefore,  took  a  step  that  must  bring  things  further. 
She  invited  Dick  Headley,  whose  weakness  for  the  girl 
was  common  knowledge.  The  card  was  indicated;  she 
played  it.  Arthur  must  come  to  the  point  or  see  another 
man  carry  her  off.  This,  at  least,  she  planned,  little 
dreaming  that  the  dark  King  of  Spades  would  interfere. 

Miss  Manning's  hand  also  was  fairly  obvious,  for 
both  men  were  extremely  eligible  partis.  She  was  get- 
ting on ;  one  or  other  was  to  become  her  husband  before 
the  party  broke  up.  This,  in  crude  language,  was  cer- 
tainly in  her  cards,  though,  being  a  nice  and  charming 
girl,  she  might  camouflage  it  cleverly  to  herself  and  others. 
Her  eyes,  on  each  man  in  turn  when  the  shooting  expe- 
dition was  being  discussed,  revealed  her  part  in  the  little 
intrigue  clearly  enough.  It  was  all,  thus  far,  as  common- 
place as  could  be. 

But  there  were  twoi  more  hands  Headley  had  to  read 
— his  own  and  his  friend's;  and  these,  he  admitted 
honestly,  were  not  so  easy.  To  take  his  own  first.  It 
was  true  he  was  fond  of  the  girl  and  had  often  tried  to 
make  up  his  mind  to  ask  her.  Without  being  conceited, 
he  had  good  reason  to  believe  his  affection  was  returned 
and  that  she  would  accept  him.  There  was  no  ecstatic 
love  on  either  side,  for  he  was  no  longer  a  boy  of  twenty, 
nor  was  she  unscathed  by  tempestuous  love  affairs  that 
had  scorched  the  first  bloom  from  her  face  and  heart. 


142  The  Wolves  of  God 

But  they  understood  one  another;  they  were  an  honest 
couple ;  she  was  tired  of  flirting1 ;  both  wanted  to  marry 
and  settle  down.  Unless  a  better  man  turned  up  she 
probably  would  say  "Yes"  without  humbug  or  delay. 
It  was  this  last  reflection  that  brought  him  to  the  final 
hand  he  had  to  read. 

Here  he  was  puzzled.  Arthur  Deane's  role  in  the 
tea-cup  strategy,  for  the  first  time  since  they  had  known 
one  another,  seemed  strange,  uncertain.  Why?  Because, 
though  paying  no  attention  to  the  girl  openly,  he  met 
her  clandestinely,  unknown  to  the  rest  of  the  house-party, 
and  above  all  without  telling-  his  intimate  pal — at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning. 

The  house-party  was  in  full  swing,  with  a  touch  of 
that  wild,  reckless  gaiety  which  followed  the  end  of  the 
war.  "  Let  us  be  happy  before  a  worse  thing  comes  upon 
us,"  was  in  many  hearts.  After  a  crowded  day  they 
danced  till  early  in  the  morning,  while  doubtful  weather 
prevented  the  early  shooting  expedition  after  duck.  The 
third  night  Headley  contrived  to  disappear  early  to  bed. 
He  lay  there  thinking.  He  was  puzzled  over  his  friend's 
r61e,  over  the  clandestine  meeting  in  particular.  It  was 
the  morning  before,  waking*  very  early,  he  had  been  drawn 
to  the  window  by  an  unusual  sound — the  cry  of  a  bird. 
Was  it  a  bird?  In  all  his  experience  he  had  never  heard 
such  a  curious,  half-singing  call  before.  He  listened  a 
moment,  thinking-  it  must  have  been  a  dream,  yet  with,  the 
odd  cry  still  ringing  in  his  ears.  It  was  repeated  close 
beneath  his  open  window,  a  long-,  low-pitched  cry  with 
three  distinct  following  notes  in  it. 

He  sat  up  in  bed  and  listened  hard.  No  bird  that 
he  knew  could  make  such  sounds.  But  it  was  not  repeated 
a  third  time,  and  out  of  sheer  curiosity  he  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  out.  Dawn  was  creeping  over  the 
distant  downs ;  he  saw  their  outline  in  the  grey  pearly 
light;  he  saw  the  lawn  below,  stretching  down  to  the 
little  river  at  the  bottom,  where  a  curtain  of  faint  mist 


The  Call  143 

hung-  in  the  air.     And  on  this  lawn  he  also  saw  Arthur 
Deane — with  Iris   Manning-. 

Of  course,  he  reflected,  they  were  going  after  the 
duck.  He  turned  to  look  at  his  watch;  it  was  three 
o'clock.  The  same  glance,  however,  showed  him  his 
gun  standing  in  the  corner.  So  they  were  going-  without 
a  g-un.  A  sharp  pang  of  unexpected  jealousy  shot  through 
him.  He  was  just  going  to  shout  out  something  or  other, 
wishing  them  good  luck,  or  asking  if  they  had  found 
another  gun,  perhaps,  when  a  cold  touch  crept  down  his 
spine.  The  same  instant  his  heart  contracted.  Deane 
had  followed  the  girl  into  the  summer-house,  which  stood 
on  the  right.  It  was  not  the  shooting  expedition  at  all. 
Arthur  was  meeting  her  for  another  purpose.  The  blood 
flowed  back,  filling  his  head.  He  felt  an  eavesdropper,  a 
sneak,  a  detective;  but,  for  all  that,  he  felt  also  jealous. 
And  his  jealousy  seemed  chiefly  because  Arthur  had  not 
told  him. 

Of  this,  then,  he  lay  thinking  in  bed  on  the  third 
night.  The  following  day  he  had  said  nothing,  but  had 
crossed  the  corridor  and  put  the  gun  in  his  friend's  room. 
Arthur,  for  his  part,  had  said  nothing  either.  For  the 
first  time  in  their  long,  long  friendship,  there  lay  a  secret 
between  them.  To  Headley  the  unexpected  revelation 
came  with  pain. 

For  something  like  a  quarter  of  a  century  these  two 
had  been  bosom  friends ;  they  had  camped  together,  been 
in  the  army  together,  taken  their  pleasure  together,  each 
the  full  confidant  of  the  other  in  all  the  things  that  go 
to  make  up  men's  lives.  Above  all,  Headley  had  been 
the  one  and  only  recipient  of  Arthur's  unhappy  love  story. 
He  knew  the  girl,  knew  his  friend's  deep  passion,  and 
also  knew  his  terrible  pain  when  she  was  lost  at 
sea.  Arthur  was  burnt  out,  finished,  out  of  the  running, 
so  far  as  marriage  was  concerned.  He  was  not  a  man 
to  love  a  second  time.  It  was  a  great  and  poignant 
tragedy.  Headley,  as  confidant,  knew  all.  But  more 


144  The  Wolves  of  God 

than  that — Arthur,  on  his  side,  knew  his  friend's  weak- 
ness for  Iris  Manning1,  knew  that  a  marriage  was  still 
possible  and  likely  between  them.  They  were  true  as 
steel  to  one  another,  and  each  man,  oddly  enough,  had 
once  saved  the  other's  life,  thus  adding  to  the  strength 
of  a  great  natural  tie. 

Yet  now  one  of  them,  feigning  innocence  by  day,  even 
indifference,  secretly  met  his  friend's  girl  by  night,  and 
kept  the  matter  to  himself.  It  seemed  incredible.  With 
his  own  eyes  Headley  had  seen  him  on  the  lawn,  passing 
in  the  faint  grey  light  through  the  mist  into  the  summer- 
house,  where  the  girl  had  just  preceded  him.  He  had  not 
seen  her  face,  but  he  had  seen  the  skirt  sweep  round  the 
corner  of  the  wooden  pillar.  He  had  not  waited  to  see 
them  come  out  again. 

So  he  now  lay  wondering  what  r61e  his  old  friend 
was  playing  in  this  little  intrigue  that  their  hostess,  Mrs. 
Blondin,  helped  to  stage.  And,  oddly  enough,  one  minor 
detail  stayed  in  his  mind  with  a  curious  vividness.  As 
naturalist,  hunter,  nature-lover,  the  cry  of  that  strange 
bird,  with  its  three  mournful  notes,  perplexed  him  ex- 
ceedingly. 

A  knock  came  at  his  door,  and  the  door  pushed  open 
before  he  had  time  to  answer.  Deane  himself  came  in. 

"Wise  man,"  he  exclaimed  in  an  easy  tone,  "got 
off  to  bed.  Iris  was  asking  where  you  were."  He  sat 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  mattress,  where  Headley  was 
lying  with  a  cigarette  and  an  open  book  he  had  not  read. 
The  old  sense  of  intimacy  and  comradeship  rose  in  the 
latter's  heart.  Doubt  and  suspicion  faded.  He  prized 
his  great  friendship.  He  met  the  familiar  eyes.  "  Im- 
possible," he  said  to  himself,  "absolutely  impossible! 
He's  not  playing  a  game;  he's  not  a  rotter  !  "  He  pushed 
over  his  cigarette  case,  and  Arthur  lighted  one. 

"Done  in,"  he  remarked  shortly,  with  the  first  puff. 
"Can't  stand  it  any  more.  I'm  off  to  town  to-morrow." 

Headley  stared  in  amazement.     "Fed  up  already?" 


The  Call  145 

he  asked.  "Why,  I  rather  like  it.  It's  quite  amusing. 
What's  wrong,  old  man?  " 

"This  match-making,"  said  Deane  bluntly.  "Always 
throwing  that  girl  at  my  head.  If  it's  not  the  duck- 
shooting  stunt  at  3  a.m.,  it's  something  else.  She  doesn't 
care  for  me  and  I  don't  care  for  her.  Besides " 

He  stopped,  and  the  expression  of  his  face  changed 
suddenly.  A  sad,  quiet  look  of  tender  yearning  came  into 
his  clear  brown  eyes. 

"  You  know,  Dick,"  he  went  on  in  a  low,  half-reverent 
tone.  "I  don't  want  to  marry.  I  never  can." 

Dick's  heart  stirred  within  him.  "Mary,"  he  said 
under  standingly. 

The  other  nodded,  as  though  the  memories  were  still 
too  much  for  him.  "I'm  still  miserably  lonely  for  her," 
he  said.  "Can't  help  it  simply.  I  feel  utterly  lost  with- 
out her.  Her  memory  to  me  is  everything."  He  looked 
deep  into  his  pal's  eyes.  "I'm  married  to  that,"  he  added 
very  firmly. 

They  puffed  their  cigarettes  a  moment  in  silence.  They 
belonged  to  the  male  type  that  conceals  emotion  behind 
schoolboy  language. 

"It's  hard  luck,"  said  Headley  gently,  "rotten  luck, 
old  man.  I  understand."  Arthur's  head  nodded  several 
times  in  succession  as  he  smoked.  He  made  no  remark 
for  some  minutes.  Then  presently  he  said,  as  though  it 
had  no  particular  importance — for  thus  old  friends  show 
frankness  to  each  other — "Besides,  anyhow,  it's  you  the 
girl's  dying  for,  not  me.  She's  blind  as  a  bat,  old  Blon- 
din.  Even  when  I'm  with  her — thrust  with  her  by  that 
old  matchmaker  for  my  sins — it's  you  she  talks  about. 
All  the  talk  leads  up  to  you  and  yours.  She's  devilish 
fond  of  you."  He  paused  a  moment  and  looked  search- 
ingly  into  his  friend's  face.  "  I  say,  old  man — are  you — 
I  mean,  do  you  mean  business  there?  Because — excuse 
me  interfering — but  you'd  better  be  careful.  She's  a  good 
sort,  you  know,  after  all." 


146  The  Wolves  of  God 

"Yes,  Arthur,  I  do  like  her  a  bit,"  Dick  told  him 
frankly.  "But  I  can't  make  up  my  mind  quite.  You 
see,  it's  like  this " 

And  they  talked  the  matter  over  as  old  friends  will, 
until  finally  Arthur  chucked  his  cigarette  into  the  grate 
and  got  up  to  go.  "Dead  to  the  world,"  he  said,  with 
a  yawn.  "I'm  off  to  bed.  Give  you  a  chance,  too,"  he 
added  with  a  laugh.  It  was  after  midnight. 

The  other  turned,  as  though  something  had  suddenly 
occurred  to  him. 

"By  the  bye,  Arthur,"  he  said  abruptly,  "what  bird 
makes  this  sound?  I  heard  it  the  other  morning.  Most 
extraordinary  cry.  You  know  everything  that  flies. 
What  is  it?  "  And,  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  he  imitated 
the  strange  three-note  cry  he  had  heard  in  the  dawn  two 
mornings  before. 

To  his  amazement  and  keen  distress,  his  friend,  with 
a  sound  like  a  stifled  groan,  sat  down  upon  the  bed 
without  a  word.  He  seemed  startled.  His  face  was 
white.  He  stared.  He  passed  a  hand,  as  in  pain,  across 
his  forehead. 

"Do  it  again,"  he  whispered,  in  a  hushed,  nervous 
voice.  "Once  again — for  me." 

And  Headley,  looking  at  him,  repeated  the  queer  notes, 
a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  rising  through  him.  "  He's 
fooling  me  after  all,"  ran  in  his  heart,  "my  old,  old 
pal " 

There  was  silence  for  a  full  minute.  Then  Arthur, 
stammering  a  bit,  said  lamely,  a  certain  hush  in  his  voice 
still :  "  Where  in  the  world  did  you  hear  that — and 
when?" 

Dick  Headley  sat  up  in  bed.  He  was  not  going  to 
lose  this  friendship,  which,  to  him,  was  more  than  the  love 
of  woman.  He  must  help.  His  pal  was  in  distress  and 
difficulty.  There  were  circumstances,  he  realized,  that  might 
be  too  strong  for  the  best  man  in  the  world — sometimes. 
No,  by  God,  he  would  play  the  game  and  help  him  out ! 


The  Call  147 

"Arthur,  old  chap,"  he  said  affectionately,  almost 
tenderly,  "I  heard  it  two  mornings  ago — on  the  lawn 
below  my  window  here.  It  woke  me  up.  I — I  went 
to  look.  Three  in  the  morning,  about." 

Arthur  amazed  him  then.  He  first  took  another  cigar- 
ette and  lit  it  steadily.  He  looked  round  the  room  vaguely, 
avoiding,  it  seemed,  the  other's  eyes.  Then  he  turned, 
pain  in  his  face,  and  gazed  straight  at  him. 

"  You  saw — nothing?  "  he  asked  in  a  louder  voice,  but 
a  voice  that  had  something  very  real  and  true  in  it.  It 
reminded  Headley  of  the  voice  he  heard  when  he  was 
fainting  from  exhaustion,  and  Arthur  had  said,  "Take 
it,  I  tell  you.  I'm  all  right,"  and  had  passed  over  the 
flask,  though  his  own  throat  and  sight  and  heart  were 
black  with  thirst.  It  was  a  voice  that  had  command  in 
it,  a  voice  that  did  not  lie  because  it  could  not — yet  did 
lie  and  could  lie — when  occasion  warranted. 

Headley  knew  a  second's  awful  struggle. 

"Nothing,"  he  answered  quietly,  after  his  little  pause. 
"Why?" 

For  perhaps  two  minutes  his  friend  hid  his  face.  Then 
he  looked  up. 

"Only,"  he  whispered,  "because  that  was  our  secret 
lovers'  cry.  It  seems  so  strange  you  heard  it  and  no!  I. 
I've  felt  her  .so  close  of  late — Mary  !  " 

The  white  face  held  very  steady,  the  firm  lips  did 
not  tremble,  but  it  was  evident  that  the  heart  knew 
anguish  that  was  deep  and  poignant.  "We  used  it  to 
call  each  other — in  the  old  days.  It  was  our  private 
call.  No  one  else  in  the  world  knew  it  but  Mary  and 
myself." 

Dick  Headley  was  flabbergasted.  He  had  no  time 
to  think,  however. 

"It's  odd  you  should  hear  it  and  not  I,"  his  friend 
repeated.  He  looked  hurt,  bewildered,  wounded.  Then 
suddenly  his  face  brightened.  "I  know,"  he  cried  sud- 
denly. "  You  and  I  are  pretty  good  pals.  There's  a  tie 


148  The  Wolves  of  God 

between  us  and  all  that.  Why,  it's  tel— telepathy,  or 
whatever  they  call  it.  That's  what  it  is." 

He  got  up  abruptly.  Dick  could  think  of  nothing  to 
say  but  to  repeat  the  other's  words.  "Of  course,  of 
course.  That's  it,"  he  said,  "telepathy."  He  stared— 
anywhere  but  at  his  pal. 

"  Night,  night !  "  he  heard  from  the  door,  and  before 
he  could  do  more  than  reply  in  similar  vein  Arthur  was 
gone. 

He  lay  for  a  long  time,  thinking,  thinking.  He  found 
it  all  very  strange.  Arthur  in  this  emotional  state  was 
new  to  him.  He  turned  it  over  and  over.  Well,  he  had 
known  good  men  behave  queerly  when  wrought  up.  That 
recognition  of  the  bird's  cry  was  strange,  of  course,  but — 
he  knew  the  cry  of  a  bird  when  he  heard  it,  though  he 
might  not  know  the  actual  bird.  That  was  no  human 
whistle.  Arthur  was — inventing.  No,  that  was  not 
possible.  He  was  worked  up,  then,  over  something,  a 
bit  hysterical  perhaps.  It  had  happened  before,  though 
in  a  milder  way,  when  his  heart  attacks  came  on.  They 
affected  his  nerves  and  head  a  little,  it  seemed.  He  was 
a  deep  sort,  Dick  remembered.  Thought  turned  and 
twisted  in  him,  offering  various  solutions,  some  absurd, 
some  likely.  He  was  a  nervous,  high-strung  fellow 
underneath,  Arthur  was.  He  remembered  that.  Also 
he  remembered,  anxiously  again,  that  his  heart  was  not 
quite  sound,  though  what  that  had  to  do  with  the  present 
tangle  he  did  not  see. 

Yet  it  was  hardly  likely  that  he  would  bring  in  Mary 
as  an  invention,  an  excuse — Mary,  the  most  sacred 
memory  in  his  life,  the  deepest,  truest,  best.  He  had 
sworn,  anyhow,  that  Iris  Manning  meant  nothing  to  him. 

Through  all  his  speculations,  behind  every  thought, 
ran  this  horrid  working  jealousy.  It  poisoned  him.  It 
twisted  truth.  It  moved  like  a  wicked  snake  through 
mind  and  heart.  Arthur,  gripped  by  his  new,  absorbing 
love  for  Iris  Manning,  lied.  He  couldn't  believe  it,  he 


The  Call  149 

didn't  believe  it,  he  wouldn't  believe  it — yet  jealousy 
persisted  in  keeping  the  idea  alive  in  him.  It  was  a  dread- 
ful thought.  He  fell  asleep  on  it. 

But  his  sleep  was  uneasy  with  feverish,  unpleasant 
dreams  that  rambled  on  in  fragments  without  coming  to 
conclusion.  Then,  suddenly,  the  cry  of  the  strange  bird 
came  into  his  dream.  He  started,  turned  over,  woke  up. 
The  cry  still  continued.  It  was  not  a  dream.  He  jumped 
out  of  bed. 

The  room  was  grey  with  early  morning,  the  air  fresh 
and  a  little  chill.  The  cry  came  floating  over  the  lawn 
as  before.  He  looked  out,  pain  clutching  at  his  heart. 
Two  figures  stood  below,  a  man  and  a  girl,  and  the  man 
was  Arthur  Deane.  Yet  the  light  was  so  dim,  the  morn- 
ing being  overcast,  that  had  he  not  expected  to  see  his 
friend,  he  would  scarcely  have  recognized  the  familiar 
form  in  that  shadowy  outline  that  stood  close  beside  the 
girl.  Nor  could  he,  perhaps,  have  recognized  Iris  Man- 
ning. Their  backs  were  to  him.  They  moved  away, 
disappearing  again  into  the  little  summer-house,  and  this 
time — he  saw  it  beyond  question — the  two  were  hand  in 
hand.  Vague  and  uncertain  as  the  figures  were  in  the 
early  twilight,  he  was  sure  of  that. 

The  first  disagreeable  sensation  of  surprise,  disgust, 
anger  that  sickened  him  turned  quickly,  however,  into 
one  of  another  kind  altogether.  A  curious  feeling  of 
superstitious  dread  crept  over  him,  and  a  shiver  ran 
again  along  his  nerves. 

"  Hallo,  Arthur  !  "  he  called  from  the  window.  There 
was  no  answer.  His  voice  was  certainly  audible  in  the 
summer-house.  But  no  one  came.  He  repeated  the 
call  a  little  louder,  waited  in  vain  for  thirty  seconds,  then 
came,  the  same  moment,  to  a  decision  that  even  surprised 
himself,  for  the  truth  was  he  could  no  longer  bear  the 
suspense  of  waiting.  He  must  see  his  friend  at  once 
and  have  it  out  with  him.  He  turned  and  went  deliber- 
ately down  the  corridor  to  Deane 's  bedroom.  He  would 


i5o  The  Wolves  of  God 

wait  there  for  his  return  and  know  the  truth  from 
his  own  lips.  But  also  another  thought  had  come — the 
gun.  He  had  quite  forgotten  it — the  safety-catch  was 
out  of  order.  He  had  not  warned  him. 

He  found  the  door  closed  but  not  locked;  opening  it 
cautiously,  he  went  in. 

But  the  unexpectedness  of  what  he  saw  gave  him  a 
genuine  shock.  He  could  hardly  suppress  a  cry.  Every- 
thing in  the  room  was  neat  and  orderly,  no  sign  of  dis- 
turbance anywhere,  and  it  was  not  empty.  There,  in 
bed,  before  his  very  eyes,  was  Arthur.  The  clothes  were 
turned  back  a  little;  he  saw  the  pyjamas  open  at  the 
throat;  he  lay  sound  asleep,  deeply,  peacefully  asleep. 

So  surprised,  indeed,  was  Headley  that,  after  staring 
a  moment,  almost  unable  to  believe  his  sight,  he  then 
put  out  a  hand  and  touched  him  gently,  cautiously  on 
the  forehead.  But  Arthur  did  not  stir  or  wake;  his 
breathing  remained  deep  and  regular.  He  lay  sleeping 
like  a  baby. 

Headley  glanced  round  the  room,  noticed  the  gun  in 
the  corner  where  he  himself  had  put  it  the  day  before, 
and  then  went  out,  closing  the  door  behind  him  softly. 

Arthur  Deane,  however,  did  not  leave  for  London  as 
he  had  intended,  because  he  felt  unwell  and  kept  to  his 
room  upstairs.  It  was  only  a  slight  attack,  apparently, 
but  he  must  lie  quiet.  There  was  no  need  to  send  for 
a  doctor;  he  knew  just  what  to  do;  these  passing  attacks 
were  common  enough.  He  would  be  up  and  about  again 
very  shortly.  Headley  kept  him  company,  saying  no 
single  word  of  what  had  happened.  He  read  aloud  to 
him,  chatted  and  cheered  him  up.  He  had  no  other 
visitors.  Within  twenty-four  hours  he  was  himself  once 
more.  He  and  his  friend  had  planned  to  leave  the 
following  day. 

But  Headley,  that  last  night  in  the  house,  felt  an  odd 
uneasiness  and  could  not  sleep.  All  night  long  he  sat 
up  reading,  looking  out  of  the  window,  smoking  in  a 


The  Call  151 

chair  where  he  could  see  the  stars  and  hear  the  wind  and 
watch  the  huge  shadow  of  the  downs.  The  house  lay 
very  still  as  the  hours  passed.  He  dozed  once  or  twice. 
Why  did  he  sit  up  in  this  unnecessary  way?  Why  did 
he  leave  his  door  ajar  so  that  the  slightest  sound  of  an- 
other door  opening,  or  of  steps  passing  along  the 
corridor,  must  reach  him?  Was  he  anxious  for  his 
friend?  Was  he  suspicious?  What  was  his  motive, 
what  his  secret  purpose? 

Headley  did  not  know,  and  could  not  even  explain  it 
to  himself.  He  felt  uneasy,  that  was  all  he  knew.  Not 
for  worlds  would  he  have  let  himself  go  to  sleep  or  lose 
full  consciousness  that  night.  It  was  very  odd ;  he  could 
not  understand  himself.  He  merely  obeyed  a  strange, 
deep  instinct  that  bade  him  wait  and  watch.  His  nerves 
were  jumpy ;  in  his  heart  lay  some  inexplicable  anxiety 
that  was  pain. 

The  dawn  came  slowly ;  the  stars  faded  one  by  one ; 
the  line  of  the  downs  showed  their  grand  bare  curves 
against  the  sky;  cool  and  cloudless  the  September  morn- 
ing broke  above  the  little  Sussex  pleasure  house.  He 
sat  and  watched  the  east  grow  bright.  The  early  wind 
brought  a  scent  of  marshes  and  the  sea  into  his  room. 
Then  suddenly  it  brought  a  sound  as  well — the  haunting 
cry  of  the  bird  with  its  three  following  notes.  And  this 
time  there  came  an  answer. 

Headley  knew  then  why  he  had  sat  up.  A  wave  of 
emotion  swept  him  as  he  heard — an  emotion  he  could  not 
attempt  to  explain.  Dread,  wonder,  longing  seized  him. 
For  some  seconds  he  could  not  leave  his  chair  because 
he  did  not  dare  to.  The  low-pitched  cries  of  call  and 
answer  rang  in  his  ears  like  some  unearthly  music.  With 
an  effort  he  started  up,  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
out. 

This  time  the  light  was  sharp  and  clear.  No  mist 
hung  in  the  air.  He  saw  the  crimsoning  sky  reflected 
like  a  band  of  shining  metal  in  the  reach  of  river  beyond 


152  The  Wolves  of  God 

the  lawn.  He  saw  dew  on  the  grass,  a  sheet  of  pallid 
silver.  He  saw  the  summer-house,  empty  of  any  passing 
figures.  For  this  time  the  two  figures  stood  plainly  in 
view  before  his  eyes  upon  the  lawn.  They  stood  there, 
hand  in  hand,  sharply  defined,  unmistakable  in  form  and 
outline,  their  faces,  moreover,  turned  upwards  to  the 
window  where  he  stood,  staring  down  in  pain  and  amaze- 
ment at  them — at  Arthur  Deane  and  Mary. 

They  looked  into  his  eyes.  He  tried  to  call,  but  no 
sound  left  his  throat.  They  began  to  move  across  the 
dew-soaked  lawn.  They  went,  he  saw,  with  a  floating, 
undulating  motion  towards  the  river  shining  in  the  dawn. 
Their  feet  left  no  marks  upon  the  grass.  They  reached 
the  bank,  but  did  not  pause  in  their  going.  They  rose 
a  little,  floating  like  silent  birds  across  the  river.  Turn- 
ing in  mid-stream,  they  smiled  towards  him,  waved  their 
hands  with  a  gesture  of  farewell,  then,  rising  still  higher 
into  the  opal  dawn,  their  figures  passed  into  the  distance 
slowly,  melting  away  against  the  sunlit  marshes  and  the 
shadowing  downs  beyond.  They  disappeared. 

Headley  never  quite  remembers  actually  leaving  the 
window,  crossing  the  room,  or  going  down  the  passage. 
Perhaps  he  went  at  once,  perhaps  he  stood  gazing  into 
the  air  above  the  downs  for  a  considerable  time,  unable 
to  tear  himself  away.  He  was  in  some  marvellous 
dream,  it  seemed.  The  next  thing  he  remembers,  at  any 
rate,  was  that  he  was  standing  beside  his  friend's  bed, 
trying,  in  h!is  distraught  anguish  of  heart,  to  call  him 
from  that  sleep  which,  on  earth,  knows  no  awakening. 


VIII 
EGYPTIAN    SORCERY 


SANFIELD  paused  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  Under- 
ground station  at  Victoria,  and  cursed  the  weather.  When 
he  left  the  City  it  was  fine ;  now  it  was  pouring  with  rain, 
and  he  had  neither  overcoat  nor  umbrella.  Not  a  taxi 
was  discoverable  in  the  dripping  gloom.  He  would  get 
soaked  before  he  reached  his  rooms  in  Sloane  Street. 

He  stood  for  some  minutes,  thinking  how  vile  London 
was  in  February,  and  how  depressing  life  was  in  general. 
He  stood  also,  iin  that  moment,  though  he  knew  it  not, 
upon  the  edge  of  a  singular  adventure.  Looking  back 
upon  it  in  later  years,  he  often  remembered  this  par- 
ticularly wretched  moment  of  a  pouring  wet  February 
evening,  when  everything  seemed  wrong,  and  Fate  had 
loaded  the  dice  against  him,  even  in  the  matter  of  weather 
and  umbrellas. 

Fate,  however,  without  betraying  her  presence,  was 
watching  him  through  the  rain  and  murk ;  and  Fate,  that 
night,  had  strange,  mysterious  eyes.  Fantastic  cards  lay 
up  her  sleeve.  The  rain,  his  weariness  and  depression,  his 
physical  fatigue  especially,  seemed  the  conditions  she  re- 
quired before  she  played  these  curious  cards.  Something 
new  and  wonderful  fluttered  close.  Romance  flashed  by 
him  across  the  driving  rain  and  touched  his  cheek.  He 
was  too  exasperated  to  be  aware  of  it. 

Things  had  gone  badly  that  day  at  the  office,,  where 
he  was  junior  partner  in  a  small  firm  of  engineers. 


154  The  Wolves  of  God 

Threatened  trouble  at  the  works  had  come  to  a  head.  A 
strike  seemed  imminent.  To  add  to  his  annoyance,  a  new 
client,  whose  custom  was  of  supreme  importance,  had 
just  complained  bitterly  of  the  delay  in  the  delivery  of  his 
machinery.  The  senior  partners  had  left  the  matter  in 
Sanfield's  hands;  he  had  not  succeeded.  The  angry 
customer  swore  he  would  hold  the  firm  to  its  contract. 
They  could  deliver  or  pay  up — whichever  suited  them. 
The  junior  partner  had  made  a  mess  of  things. 

The  final  words  on  the  telephone  still  rang  in  his  ears 
as  he  stood  sheltering  under  the  arcade,  watching  the 
downpour,  and  wondering  whether  he  should  make  a  dash 
for  it  or  wait  on  the  chance  of  its  clearing  up — when  a 
further  blow  was  dealt  him  as  the  rain-soaked  poster  of 
an  evening  paper  caught  his  eye  :  "  Riots  in  Egypt.  Heavy 
Fall  in  Egyptian  Securities,"  he  read  with  blank  dismay. 
Buying  a  paper  he  turned  feverishly  to  the  City  article — 
to  find  his  worst  fears  confirmed.  Delta  Lands,  in  which 
nearly  all  his  small  capital  was  invested,  had  declined  a 
quarter  on  the  news,  and  would  evidently  decline  further 
still.  The  riots  were  going  on  in  the  towns  nearest  to 
their  property.  Banks  had  been  looted,  crops  destroyed; 
the  trouble  was  deep-seated. 

So  grave  was  the  situation  that  mere  weather  seemed 
suddenly  of  no  account  at  all.  He  walked  home  doggedly 
in  the  drenching  rain,  paying  less  attention  to  it  than  if  it 
had  been  Scotch  mist.  The  water  streamed  from  his  hat, 
dripped  down  his  back  and  neck,  splashed  him  with  mud 
and  grime  from  head  to  foot.  He  was  soaked  to*  the  skin. 
He  hardly  noticed  it.  His  capital  had  depreciated  by  half, 
at  least,  and  possibly  was  altogether  lost ;  his  position  at 
the  office  was  insecure.  How  could  mere  weather  matter  ? 

Sitting,  eventually,  before  his  fire  in  dry  clothes,  after 
an  apology  for  a  dinner  he  had  no  heart  to  eat,  he  re- 
viewed the  situation.  He  faced  a  possible  total  loss  of 
his  private  capital.  Next,  the  position  of  his  firm  caused 
him  grave  uneasiness,  since,  apart  from  his  own  mis- 


Egyptian  Sorcery  155 

handling  of  the  new  customer,  the  threatened  strike  might 
ruin  it  completely;  a  long  strain  on  its  limited  finances 
was  out  of  the  question.  George  Sanfield  certainly  saw 
things  at  their  worst.  He  was  now  thirty-five.  A  fresh 
start — the  mere  idea  of  it  made  him  shudder — occurred  as 
a  possibility  in  the  near  future.  Vitality,  indeed,  was  at 
a  low  ebb,  it  seemed.  Mental  depression,  great  physical 
fatigue,  weariness  of  life  in  general  made  his  spirits  droop 
alarmingly,  so  that  almost  he  felt  tired  of  living.  His 
tie  with  existence,  at  any  rate,  just  then  was  dangerously 
weak. 

Thought  turned  next  to  the  man  on  whose  advice  he 
had  staked  his  all  in  Delta  Lands.  Morris  had  important 
Egyptian  interests  in  various  big  companies  and  enter- 
prises along  the  Nile.  He  had  first  come  to  the  firm  with 
a  letter  of  introduction  upon  some  business  matter,  which 
the  junior  partner  had  handled  so  successfully  that 
acquaintance  thus  formed  had  ripened  into  a  more  per- 
sonal tie.  The  two  men  had  much  in  common ;  their 
temperaments  were  suited;  understanding  grew  between 
them ;  they  felt  at  home  and  comfortable  with  one  another. 
They  became  friends ;  they  felt  a  mutual  confidence.  When 
Morris  paid  his  rare  visits  to  England,  they  spent  much 
time  together;  and  it  was  on  one  of  these  occasions  that 
the  matter  of  the  Egyptian  shares  was  mentioned,  Morris 
urgently  advising  their  purchase. 

Sanfield  explained  his  own  position  clearly  enough, 
but  his  friend  was  so  confident  and  optimistic  that  the 
purchase  eventually  had  been  made.  There  had  been, 
moreover,  Sanfield  now  remembered,  the  flavour  of  a 
peculiarly  intimate  and  personal  kind  about  the  deal.  He 
had  remarked  it,  with  a  touch  of  surprise,  at  the  moment, 
though  really  it  seemed  natural  enough.  Morris  was  very 
earnest,  holding  his  friend's  interest  at  heart;  he  was 
affectionate  almost. 

"I'd  like  to  do  you  this  good  turn,  old  man,"  he  said. 
"I  have  the  strong  feeling,  somehow,  that  I  owe  you  this, 


i56  The  Wolves  of  God 

though  heaven  alone  knows  why  !  "  After  a  pause  he 
added,  half  shyly  :  "It  may  be  one  of  those  old  memories 
we  hear  about  nowadays  cropping  up  out  of  some  previous 
life  together."  Before  the  other  could  reply,  he  went 
on  to  explain  that  only  three  men  were  in  the  parent  syn- 
dicate, the  shares  being  unobtainable.  "I'll  set  some  of 
my  own  aside  for  you — four  thousand  or  so,  if  you  like." 

They  laughed  together ;  Sanfield  thanked  him  warmly ; 
the  deal  was  carried  out.  But  the  recipient  of  the  favour 
had  wondered  a  little  at  the  sudden  increase  of  intimacy 
even  while  he  liked  it  and  responded. 

Had  he  been  a  fool,  he  now  asked  himself,  to  swallow 
the  advice,  putting  all  his  eggs  into  a  single  basket?  He 
knew  very  little  about  Morris  after  all.  .  .  .  Yet,  while 
reflection  showed  him  that  the  advice  was  honest,  and 
the  present  riots  no  fault  of  the  adviser's,  he  found  his 
thoughts  turning  in  a  steady  stream  towards  the  man. 
The  affairs  of  the  firm  took  second  place.  It  was  Morris, 
with  his  deep-set  eyes,  his  curious  ways,  his  dark  skin 
burnt  brick-red  by  a  fierce  Eastern  sun ;  it  was  Morris, 
looking  almost  like  an  Egyptian,  who  stood  before  him 
as  he  sat  thinking  gloomily  over  his  dying  fire. 

He  longed  to  talk  with  him,  to  ask  him  questions,  to 
seek  advice.  He  saw  him  very  vividly  against  the  screen  of 
thought ;  Morris  stood  beside  him  now,  gazing  out  across 
the  limitless  expanse  of  tawny  sand.  He  had  in  his  eyes 
the  "distance  "  that  sailors  share  with  men  whose  life  has 
been  spent  amid  great  trackless  wastes.  Morris,  more- 
over, now  he  came  to  think  of  it,  seemed  always  a  little 
out  of  place  in  England.  He  had  few  relatives  and,  ap- 
parently, no  friends ;  he  was  always  intensely  pleased 
when  the  time  came  to  return  to  his  beloved  Nile.  He 
had  once  mentioned  casually  a  sister  who  kept  house 
for  him  when  duty  detained  him  in  Cairo,  but,  even  here, 
he  was  something  of  an  Oriental,  rarely  speaking  of  his 
women  folk.  Egypt,  however,  plainly  drew  him  like  a 
magnet.  Resistance  involved  disturbance  in  his  being, 


Egyptian  Sorcery  157 

even  ill-health.  Egypt  was  "home"  to  him,  and  his 
friend,  though  he  had  never  been  there,  felt  himself  its 
potent  spell. 

Another  curious  trait  Sanfield  remembered,  too — his 
friend's  childish  superstition;  his  belief,  or  half-belief,  in 
magic  and  the  supernatural.  Sanfield,  amused,  had  as- 
cribed it  to  the  long  sojourn  in  a  land  where  anything 
unusual  is  at  once  ascribed  to  spiritual  agencies.  Morris 
owed  his  entire  fortune,  if  his  tale  could  be  believed,  to 
the  magical  apparition  of  an  unearthly  kind  in  some  lonely 
wadi  among  the  Bedouins.  A  sand-diviner  had  influenced 
another  successful  speculation.  ...  He  was  a  picturesque 
figure,  whichever  way  one  took  him  :  yet  a  successful 
business  man  into  the  bargain. 

These  reflections  and  memories,  on  the  other  hand, 
brought  small  comfort  to  the  man  who  had  tempted  Fate 
by  following  his  advice.  It  was  only  a  little  strange  how 
Morris  now  dominated  his  thoughts,  directing  them  to- 
wards himself.  Morris  was  in  Egypt  at  the  moment. 

He  went  to  bed  at  length,  filled  with  uneasy  mis- 
givings, but  for  a  long  time  he  could  not  sleep.  He 
tossed  restlessly,  his  mind  still  running  on  the  subject  of 
his  long  reflections.  He  ached  with  tiredness.  He 
dropped  off  at  last.  Then  came  a  nightmare  dream,  in 
which  the  firm's  works  were  sold  for  nearly  nothing  to 
an  old  Arab  sheikh  who  wished  to  pay  for  them — in  goats. 
He  woke  up  in  a  cold  perspiration.  He  had  uneasy 
thoughts.  His  fancy  was  travelling.  He  could  not 
rest. 

To  distract  his  mind,  he  turned  on  the  light  and  tried 
to  read,  and,  eventually,  towards  morning,  fell  into  a 
sleep  of  sheer  exhaustion.  And  his  final  thought — he 
knew  not  exactly  why — was  a  sentence  Morris  had  made 
use  of  long  ago :  "I  feel  I  owe  you  a  good  turn ;  I'd  like 
to  do  something  for  you.  ..." 

This  was  the  memory  in  his  mind  as  he  slipped  off 
into  unconsciousness. 


i58  The  Wolves  of  God 

But  what  happens  when  the  mind  is  unconscious  and 
the  tired  body  lies  submerged  in  deep  sleep,  no  man, 
they  say,  can  really  tell. 


The  next  thing  he  knew  he  was  walking  along  a  sun- 
baked street  in  some  foreign  town  that  was  familiar, 
although,  at  first,  its  name  escaped  him.  Colour,  soft- 
ness, and  warmth  pervaded  it;  there  was  sparkle  and 
lightness  in  the  exhilarating  air;  it  was  an  Eastern  town. 

Though  early  morning,  a  number  of  people  were 
already  stirring;  strings  of  camels  passed  him,  loaded 
with  clover,  bales  of  merchandise,  and  firewood.  Grace- 
fully-draped women  went  by  silently,  carrying  water  jars 
of  burnt  clay  upon  their  heads.  Rude  wooden  shutters 
were  being  taken  down  in  the  bazaars ;  the  smoke  of 
cooking-fires  rose  in  blue  spirals  through  the  quiet  air. 
He  felt  strangely  at  home  and  happy.  The  light,  the 
radiance  stirred  him.  He  passed  a  mosque  from  which 
the  worshippers  came  pouring  in  a  stream  of  colour. 

Yet,  though  an  Eastern  town,  it  was  not  wholly 
Oriental,  for  he  saw  that  many  of  the  buildings  were  of 
semi-European  design,  and  that  the  natives  sometimes 
wore  European  dress,  except  for  the  fez  upon  the  head. 
Among  them  were  Europeans,  too.  Staring  into  the 
faces  of  the  passers-by,  he  found,  to  his  vexation,  that 
he  could  not  focus  sight  as  usual,  and  that  the  nearer  he 
approached,  the  less  clearly  he  discerned  the  features.  The 
faces,  upon  close  attention,  at  once  grew  shadowy,  merged 
into  each  other,  or,  in  some  odd  fashion,  melted  into  the 
dazzling  sunshine  that  was  their  background.  All  his 
attempts  in  this  direction  failed ;  impatience  seized  him ;  of 
surprise,  however,  he  was  not  conscious.  Yet  this  mingled 
vagueness  and  intensity  seemed  perfectly  natural. 

Filled  with  a  stirring  curiosity,  he  made  a  strong  effort 


Egyptian  Sorcery  159 

to  concentrate  his  attention,  only  to  discover  that  this 
vagueness,  this  difficulty  of  focus,  lay  in  his  own  being, 
too.  He  wandered  on,  unaware  exactly  where  he  was 
going,  yet  not  much  perturbed,  since  there  was  an 
objective  !in  view,  he  knew,  and  this  objective  must  eventu- 
ally be  reached.  Its  nature,  however,  for  the  moment 
entirely  eluded  him. 

The  sense  of  familiarity,  meanwhile,  increased ;  he  had 
been  in  this  town  before,  although  not  quite  within 
recoverable  memory.  It  seemed,  perhaps,  the  general 
atmosphere,  rather  than  the  actual  streets,  he  knew;  a 
certain  perfume  in  the  air,  a  tang  of  indefinable  sweetness, 
a  vitality  in  the  radiant  sunshine.  The  dark  faces  that  he 
could  not  focus,  he  yet  knew ;  the  flowing  garments  of  blue 
and  red  and  yellow,  the  softly-slippered  feet,  the  slouch- 
ing camels,  the  burning  human  eyes  that  faded  ere  he  fully 
caught  them — the  entire  picture  in  this  blazing  sunlight 
lay  half-hidden,  half- revealed.  And  an  extraordinary 
sense  of  happiness  and  well-being  flooded  him  as  he 
walked ;  he  felt  at  home ;  comfort  and  bliss  stole  over 
him.  Almost  he  knew  his  way  about.  This  was  a  place* 
he  loved  and  knew. 

The  complete  silence,  moreover,  did  not  strike  him  as 
peculiar  until,  suddenly,  it:  was  broken  in  a  startling 
fashion.  He  heard  his  own  name  spoken.  It  sounded 
close  beside  his  ear. 

"  George  Sanfield  !  "  The  voice  was  familiar.  Morris 
called  him.  He  realized  then  the  truth.  He  was,  of 
course,  in  Cairo. 

Yet,  instead  of  turning  to  discover  the  speaker  at  his 
side,  he  hurried  forward,  as  though  he  knew  that  the  voice 
had  come  through  distance.  His  consciousness  cleared 
and  lightened ;  he  felt  more  alive ;  his  eyes  now  focused 
the  passers-by  without  difficulty.  He  was  there  to  find 
Morris,  and  Morris  was  directing  him.  All  was  explained 
and  natural  again.  He  hastened.  But,  even  while  he 
hastened,  he  knew  that  his  personal  desire  to  speak  with 


i6o  The  Wolves  of  God 

his  friend  about  Egyptian  shares  and  Delta  Lands  was  not 
his  single  object.  Behind  it,  further  in  among  as  yet 
unstirring  shadows,  lay  another  deeper  purpose.  Yet  he 
did  not  trouble  about  it,  nor  make  a  conscious  effort  at 
discovery.  Morris  was  doing  him  that  "good  turn  I  feel 
I  owe  you."  This  conviction  rilled  him  overwhelmingly. 
The  question  of  how  and  why  did  not  once  occur  to  him. 
A  strange,  great  happiness  rose  in  him. 

Upon  the  outskirts  of  the  town  now,  he  found  him- 
self approaching  a  large  building  in  the  European  style, 
with  wide  verandas  and  a  cultivated  garden  filled  with 
palm  trees.  A  well-kept  drive  of  yellow  sand  led  to  its 
chief  entrance,  and  the  man  in  khaki  drill  and  riding- 
breeches  walking  along  this  drive,  not  ten  yards  in  front 
of  him,  was — Morris.  He  overtook  him,  but  his  cry  of 
welcome  recognition  was  not  answered.  Morris,  walking 
with  bowed  head  and  stooping  shoulders,  seemed  in- 
tensely preoccupied ;  he  had  not  heard  the  call. 

"  Here  I  am,  old  fellow  !  "  exclaimed  his  friend,  hold- 
ing out  a  hand.  "  I've  come,  you  see  .  .  .  !  "  then  paused 
aghast  before  the  altered  face.  Morris  paid  no  attention. 
He  walked  straight  on  as  though  he  had  not  heard.  It 
was  the  distraught  and  anguished  expression  on  the  drawn 
and  haggard  features  that  impressed  the  other  most.  The 
silence  he  took  without  surprise. 

It  was  the  pain  and  suffering  in  his  friend  that  occu- 
pied him.  The  dark  rims  beneath  heavy  eyes,  the  evi- 
dence of  sleepless  nights,  of  long  anxiety  and  ceaseless 
dread,  afflicted  him  with  their  too-plain  story.  The  man 
was  overwhelmed  with  some  great  sorrow.  Sanfield  for- 
got his  personal  trouble ;  this  larger,  deeper  grief  usurped 
its  place  entirely. 

"Morris!  Morris!"  he  cried  yet  more  eagerly  than 
before.  "I've  come,  you  see.  Tell  me  what's  the  matter. 
I  believe — that  I  can — help  you  ...  !  " 

The  other  turned,  looking  past  him  through  the  air. 
He  made  no  answer.  The  eyes  went  through  him.  He 


Egyptian  Sorcery  161 

walked  straight  on,  and  Sanfield  walked  at  his  side  in 
silence.  Through  the  large  door  they  passed  together, 
Morris  paying  as  little  attention  to  him  as  though  he  were 
not  there,  and  in  the  small  chamber  they  now  entered, 
evidently  a  waiting-room,  an  Egyptian  servant  ap- 
proached, uttered  some  inaudible  words,  and  then  with- 
drew, leaving  them  alone  together. 

It  seemed  that  time  leaped  forward,  yet  stood  still ;  the 
passage  of  minutes,  that  is  to  say,  was  irregular,  almost 
fanciful.  Whether  the  interval  was  long  or  short,  how- 
ever, Morris  spent  it  pacing  up  and  down  the  little  room, 
his  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets,  his  mind  oblivious 
of  all  else  but  his  absorbing  anxiety  and  grief.  To  his 
friend,  who  watched  him  by  the  wall  with  intense  desire 
to  help,  he  paid  no  attention.  The  latter 's  spoken  words 
went  by  him,  entirely  unnoticed ;  he  gave  no  sign  of  seeing 
him ;  his  eyes,  as  he  paced  up  and  down,  muttering  in- 
audibly  to  himself,  were  fixed  every  few  seconds  on  an 
inner  door.  Beyond  that  door,  Sanfield  now  divined, 
lay  someone  who  hesitated  on  the  narrow  frontier  between 
life  and  death. 

It  opened  suddenly  and  a  man,  in  overall  and  rubber 
gloves,  came  out,  his  face  grave  yet  with  faint  signs  of 
hope  about  it — a  doctor,  clearly,  straight  from  the  operat- 
ing table.  Morris,  standing  rigid  in  his  tracks,  listened 
to  something  spoken,  for  the  lips  were  in  movement, 
though  no  words  were  audible.  The  operation,  Sanfield 
divined,  had  been  successful,  though  danger  was  still 
present.  The  two  men  passed  out,  then,  into  the  hall 
and  climbed  a  wide  staircase  to  the  floor  above,  Sanfield 
following  noiselessly,  though  so  close  that  he  could  touch 
them.  Entering  a  large,  airy  room  where  French  windows, 
carefully  shaded  with  green  blinds  opened  on  to  a  veranda, 
they  approached  a  bed.  Two  nurses  bent  over  it.  The 
occupant  was  at  first  invisible. 

Events  had  moved  with  curious  rapidity.  All  this  had 
happened,  it  seemed,  in  a  single  moment,  yet  with  the 


162  The  Wolves  of  God 

irregular  effect  already  mentioned  which  made  Sanfield 
feel  it  might,  equally,  have  lasted  hours.  But,  as  he 
stood  behind  Morris  and  the  surgeon  at  the  bed,  the 
deeps  in  him  opened  suddenly,  and  he  trembled  under  a 
shock  of  intense  emotion  that  he  could  not  understand. 
As  with  a  stroke  of  lightning  some  heavenly  fire  set  his 
heart  aflame  with  yearning.  The  very  soul  in  him  broke 
loose  with  passionate  longing  that  must  find  satisfaction. 
It  came  to  him  in  a  single  instant  with  the  certain  know- 
ledge of  an  unconquerable  conviction.  Hidden,  yet  ever 
waiting,  among  the  broken  centuries,  there  now  leaped 
upon  him  this  flash  of  memory — the  memory  of  some 
sweet  and  ancient  love  Time  might  veil  yet  could  not 
kill. 

He  ran  forward,  past  the  surgeon  and  the  nurses, 
past  Morris  who  bent  above  the  bed  with  a  face  ghastly 
from  anxiety.  He  gazed  down  upon  the  fair  girl  lying 
there,  her  unbound  hair  streaming  over  the  pillow.  He 
saw,  and  he  remembered.  And  an  uncontrollable  cry  of 
recognition  left  his  lips.  .  .  . 

The  irregularity  of  the  passing  minutes  became  so 
marked  then,  that  he  might  well  have  passed  outside  their 
measure  altogether,  beyond  what  men  call  Time ;  dura- 
tion, interval,  both  escaped.  Alone  and  free  with  his 
eternal  love,  he  was  safe  from  all  confinement,  free,  it 
seemed,  either  of  time  or  space.  His  friend,  however, 
was  vaguely  with  him  during  the  amazing  instant.  He 
felt  acutely  aware  of  the  need  each  had,  respectively,  for 
the  other,  born  of  a  heritage  the  Past  had  hidden  over- 
long.  Each,  it  was  clear,  could  do  the  other  a  good  turn. 
.  .  .  Sanfield,  though  unable  to  describe  or  disentangle 
later,  knew,  while  it  lasted,  this  joy  of  full,  delicious 
understanding.  .  .  . 

The  strange,  swift  instant  of  recognition  passed  and 
disappeared.  The  cry,  Sanfield  realized,  on  coming  back 
to  the  Present,  had  been  soundless  and  inaudible  as  before. 
No  one  observed  him ;  no  one  stirred.  The  girl,  on  that 


Egyptian  Sorcery  163 

bed  beside  the  opened  windows,  lay  evidently  dying".  Her 
breath  came  in  gasps,  her  chest  heaved  convulsively,  each 
attempt  at  recovery  was  slower  and  more  painful  than 
the  one  before.  She  was  unconscious.  Sometimes  her 
breathing-  seemed  to  stop.  It  grew  weaker,  as  the  pulse 
grew  fainter.  And  Sanfield,  transfixed  as  with  paralysis, 
stood  watching,  waiting-,  an  intolerable  yearning  in  his 
heart  to  help.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  waited  with  a 
purpose. 

This  purpose  suddenly  became  clear.  He  knew  why 
he  waited.  There  was  help  to  be  given.  He  was  the  one 
to  give  it. 

The  girl's  vitality  and  ebbing  nerves,  her  entire 
physical  organism  now  fading-  so  quickly  towards  that 
final  extinction  which  meant  death — could  these  but  be 
stimulated  by  a  new  tide  of  life,  the  danger-point  now 
fast  approaching-  might  be  passed,  and  recovery  must 
follow.  This  impetus,  he  knew  suddenly,  he  could  supply. 
How,  he  could  not  tell.  It  flashed  upon  him  from  beyond 
the  stars,  as  from  ancient  store  of  long-forgotten,  long- 
neglected  knowledge.  It  was  enough  that  he  felt  confident 
and  sure.  His  soul  burned  within  him ;  the  strength  of 
an  ancient  and  unconquerable  love  rose  through  his  being. 
He  would  try. 

The  doctor,  he  saw,  was  in  the  act  of  giving  his  last 
aid  in  the  form  of  a  hypodermic  injection,  Morris  and  the 
nurses  looking  on.  Sanfield  observed  the  sharp  quick 
rally,  only  too  faint,  too  slight ;  he  saw  the  collapse  that 
followed.  The  doctor,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  turned 
with  a  look  that  could  not  express  itself  in  words,  and 
Morris,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands,  knelt  by  the  bed, 
shaken  with  convulsive  sobbing.  It  was  the  end. 

In  which  moment,  precisely,  the  strange  paralysis  that 
had  bound  Sanfield  momentarily,  was  lifted  from  his 
being,  and  an  impelling  force,  obeying  his  immense  desire, 
invaded  him.  He  knew  how  to  act.  His  will,  taught  long 
ago,  yet  long-forgotten,  was  set  free. 


164  The  Wolves  of  God 

"You  have  come  back  to  me  at  last,"  he  cried  in  his 
anguish  and  his  power,  though  the  voice  was,  as  ever, 
inaudible  and  soundless,  "I  shall  not  let  you  go !  .  .  ." 

Drawn  forward  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  bed,  he  leaned 
down,  as  if  to  kiss  the  pale  lips  and  streaming  hair.  But 
his  knowledge  operated  better  than  he  knew.  In  the  tre- 
mendous grip  of  that  power  which  spins  the  stars  and 
suns,  while  drawing  souls  into  manifestation  upon  a  dozen 
planets,  he  raced,  he  dived,  he  plunged,  helpless,  yet 
driven  by  the  creative  stress  of  love  and  sacrifice  towards 
some  eternal  purpose.  Caught  in  what  seemed  a  vortex 
of  amazing  force,  he  sank  away,  as  a  straw  is  caught  and 
sunk  within  the  suction  of  a  mighty  whirlpool.  His 
memory  of  Morris,  of  the  doctor,  of  the  girl  herself,  passed 
utterly.  His  entire  personality  became  merged,  lost, 
obliterated.  He  was  aware  of  nothing ;  not  even  aware 
of  nothingness.  He  lost  consciousness.  .  .  . 


The  reappearance  was  as  sudden  as  the  obliteration. 
He  emerged.  There  had  been  interval,  duration,  time. 
He  was  not  aware  of  them.  A  spasm  of  blinding  pain 
shot  through  him.  He  opened  his  eyes.  His  whole  body 
was  a  single  devouring  pain.  He  felt  cramped,  confined, 
uncomfortable.  He  must  escape.  He  thrashed  about. 
Someone  seized  his  arm  and  held  it.  With  a  snarl  he 
easily  wrenched  it  free. 

He  was  in  bed.  How  had  he  come  to  this?  An 
accident?  He  saw  the  faces  of  nurse  and  doctor  bending 
over  him,  eager,  amazed,  surprised,  a  trifle  frightened. 
Vague  memories  floated  to  him.  Who  was  he?  Where 
had  he  come  from?  And  where  was  .  .  .  where  was  .  .  . 
someone  .  .  .  who  was  dearer  to  him  than  life  itself? 
He  looked  about  him  :  the  room,  the  faces,  the  French 


Egyptian  Sorcery  165 

windows,  the  veranda,  all  seemed  only  half  familiar.  He 
looked,  he  searched  for  ...  someone  .  .  .  but  in  vain.  .  .  . 

A  spasm  of  violent  pain  burned  through  his  body  like 
a  fire,  and  he  shut  his  eyes.  He  groaned.  A  voiee 
sounded  just  above  him  :  "Take  this,  dear.  Try  and 
swallow  a  little.  It  will  relieve  you.  Your  brother  will 
be  back  in  a  moment.  You  are  much  better  already." 

He  looked  up  at  the  nurse;  he  drank  what  she  gave 
him. 

"My  brother  !  "  he  murmured.  "I  don't  understand. 
I  have  no  brother."  Thirst  came  over  him;  he  drained 
the  glass.  The  nurse,  wearing  a  startled  look,  moved 
away.  He  watched  her  go.  He  pointed  at  her  with  his 
hand,  meaning  to  say  something  that  he  instantly  forgot 
— as  he  saw  his  own  bare  arm.  Its  dreadful  thinness 
shocked  him.  He  must  have  been  ill  for  months.  The 
arm,  wasted  almost  to  nothing,  showed  the  bone.  He 
sank  back  exhausted,  the  sleeping  draught  began  to  take 
effect.  The  nurse  returned  quietly  to  a  chair  beside  the 
bed,  from  which  she  watched  him  without  ceasing  as  the 
long  minutes  passed.  .  .  . 

He  found  it  difficult  to  collect  his  thoughts,  to  keep 
them  in  his  mind  when  caught.  There  floated  before  him 
a  series  of  odd  scenes  like  coloured  pictures  in  an  endless 
flow.  He  was  unable  to  catch  them.  Morris  was  with 
him  always.  They  were  doing  quite  absurd,  impossible 
things.  They  rode  together  across  the  desert  in  the  dawn, 
they  wandered  through  old  massive  temples,  they  saw  the 
sun  set  behind  mud  villages  mid  wavering  palms,  they 
drifted  down  a  river  in  a  sailing  boat  of  quaint  design. 
It  had  an  enormous  single  sail.  Together  they  visited 
tombs  cut  in  the  solid  rock,  hot  airless  corridors,  and 
huge,  dim,  vaulted  chambers  underground.  There  was 
an  icy  wind  by  night,  fierce  burning  sun  by  day.  They 
watched  vast  troops  of  stars  pass  down  a  stupendous  sky. 
.  .  .  They  knew  delight  and  tasted  wonder.  Strange 
memories  touched  them. 


166  The  Wolves  of  God 

"Nurse  !  "  he  called  aloud,  returning  to  himself  again, 
and  remembering  that  he  must  speak  with  his  friend  about 
something — he  failed  to  recall  exactly  what.  "  Please  ask 
Mr.  Morris  to  come  to  me." 

"At  once,  dear.  He's  only  in  the  next  room  waiting 
for  you  to  wake."  She  went  out  quickly,  and  he  heard 
her  voice  in  the  passage.  It  sank  to  a  whisper  as  she 
came  back  with  Morris,  yet  every  syllable  reached  him 
distinctly  : 

"...  and  pay  no  attention  if  she  wanders  a  little; 
just  ignore  it.  She's  turned  the  corner,  thank  God,  and 
that's  the  chief  thing."  Each  word  he  heard  with  wonder 
and  perplexity,  with  increasing  irritability  too. 

"I'm  a  hell  of  a  wreck,"  he  said,  as  Morris  came, 
beaming,  to  the  bedside.  "Have  I  been  ill  long?  It's 
frightfully  decent  of  you  to  come,  old  man." 

But  Morris,  staggered  at  this  greeting,  stopped 
abruptly,  half  turning  to  the  nurse  for  guidance.  He 
seemed  unable  to  find  words.  Sanfield  was  extremely 
annoyed;  fie  showed  his  feeling.  "I'm  not  balmy,  you 
old  ass  !  "  he  shouted.  "  I'm  all  right  again,  though  very 
weak.  But  I  wanted  to  ask  you — oh,  I  remember  now — 
I  wanted  to  ask  you  about  my — er — Deltas.'' 

"My  poor  dear  Maggie,"  stammered  Morris,  fumbling 
with  his  voice.  "Don't  worry  about  your  few  shares, 
darling.  Deltas  are  all  right — it's  you  we " 

"Why,  the  devil,  do  you  call  me  Maggie?  "  snapped 
the  other  viciously.  "And  '  darling'  !  "  He  felt  furious, 
exasperated.  "Have  you  gone  balmy,  or  have  I?  What 
in  the  world  are  you  two  up  to?  "  His  fury  tired  him. 
He  lay  back  upon  his  pillows,  fuming.  Morris  took  a 
chair  beside  the  bed ;  he  put  a  hand  gently  on  his  wasted 
arm. 

"My  darling  girl,"  he  said,  in  what  was  intended 
to  be  a  soothing  voice,  though  it  stirred  the  sick  man 
again  to  fury  beyond  expression,  "you  must  really  keep 
quiet  for  a  bit.  You've  had  a  very  severe  operation" 


Egyptian  Sorcery  167 

his  voice  shook  a  little — "but,  thank  God,  you've  pulled 
through  and  are  now  on  the  way  to  recovery.  You  are 
my  sister  Maggie.  It  will  all  come  back  to  you  when 
you're  rested " 

"Maggie,  indeed!"  interrupted  the  other,  trying  to 
sit  up  again,  but  too  weak  to  compass  it.  "  Your  sister  ! 
You  bally  idiot  !  Don't  you  know  me?  I  wish  to 
God  the  nurse  wouldn't  '  dear  '  me  in  that  senseless 
way.  And  you,  with  your  atrocious  '  darling.1  I'm 
not  your  precious  sister  Maggie.  I'm — I'm  George 
San " 

But  even  as  he  said  it,  there  passed  over  him  some 
dim  lost  fragment  of  a  wild,  delicious  memory  he  could 
not  seize.  Intense  pleasure  lay  in  it,  could  he  but  recover 
it.  He  knew  a  sweet,  forgotten  joy.  His  broken, 
troubled  mind  lay  searching  frantically  but  without 
success.  It  dazzled  him.  It  shook  him  with  an  inde- 
scribable emotion — of  joy,  of  wonder,  of  deep  sweet 
confusion.  A  rapt  happiness  rose  in  him,  yet  pain,  like 
a  black  awful  shutter,  closed  in  upon  the  happiness  at 
once.  He  remembered  a  girl.  But  he  remembered,  too, 
that  he  had  seen  her  die.  Who  was  she?  Had  he  lost 
her  .  .  .  again  .  .  .  ! 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  faltered  in  a  weaker  voice  to 
Morris,  "my  brain's  in  a  whirl.  I'm  sorry.  I  suppose 
I've  had  some  blasted  concussion — haven't  I?  " 

But  the  man  beside  his  bed,  he  saw,  was  startled. 
An  extraordinary  look  came  into  his  face,  though  he  tried 
to  hide  it  with  a  smile. 

"My  shares!"  cried  Sanfield,  with  a  half  scream. 
"  Four  thousand  of  them  !  " 

Whereupon  Morris  blanched.  "George  Sanfield!" 
he  muttered,  half  to  himself,  half  to  the  nurse  who  hurried 
up.  "  That  voice  !  The  very  number  too  !  "  He  looked 
white  and  terrified,  as  if  he  had  seen  a  ghost.  A  whis- 
pered colloquy  ensued  between  him  and  the  nurse.  It 
was  inaudible. 


168  The  Wolves  of  God 

"Now,  dearest  Maggie,"  he  said  at  length,  making 
evidently  a  tremendous  effort,  "do  try  and  lie  quiet  for  a 
bit.  Don't  bother  about  George  Sanfield,  my  London 
friend.  His  shares  are  quite  safe.  You've  heard  me 
speak  of  him.  It's  all  right,  my  darling,  quite  all  right. 
Oh,  believe  me  !  I'm  your  brother." 

"Maggie  .  .  .  !"  whispered  the  man  to  himself  upon 
the  bed,  whereupon  Morris  stooped,  and,  to  his  intense 
horror,  kissed  him  on  the  cheek.  But  his  horror  seemed 
merged  at  once  in  another  personality  that  surged 
through  and  over  his  entire  being,  drowning  memory 
and  recognition  hopelessly.  "Darling,"  he  murmured. 
He  realized  that  he  was  mad,  of  course.  It  seemed  he 
fainted.  .  .  . 

The  momentary  unconsciousness  soon  passed,  at  any 
rate.  He  opened  his  eyes  again.  He  saw  a  palm  tree 
out  of  the  window.  He  knew  positively  he  was  not  mad, 
whatever  else  he  might  be.  Dead  perhaps?  He  felt  the 
sheets,  the  mattress,  the  skin  upon  Ms  face.  No,  he 
was  alive  all  right.  The  dull  pains  where  the  tight 
bandages  oppressed  him  were  also  real.  He  was  among 
substantial,  earthly  things.  The  nurse,  he  noticed, 
regarded  him  anxiously.  She  was  a  pleasant-looking 
young  woman.  He  smiled;  and,  with  an  expression  of 
affectionate,  even  tender  pleasure,  she  smiled  back 
at  him. 

"You  feel  better  now,  a  little  stronger,"  she  said 
softly.  "You've  had  a  sleep,  Miss  Margaret."  She  said 
"  Miss  Margaret  "  with  a  conscious  effort.  It  was  better, 
perhaps,  than  "dear";  but  his  anger  rose  at  once.  He 
was  too  tired,  however,  to  express  his  feelings.  There 
stole  over  him,  besides,  the  afflicting  consciousness  of  an 
alien  personality  that  was  familiar,  and  yet  not  his.  It 
strove  to  dominate  him>  Only  by  a  great  effort  could  he 
continue  to  think  his  own  thoughts.  This  other  being 
kept  trying  to  intrude,  to  oust  him,  to  take  full  possession. 
It  resented  his  presence  with  a  kind  of  violence. 


Egyptian  Sorcery  169 

He  sighed.  So  strong  was  the  feeling  of  another  per- 
sonality trying  to  foist  itself  upon  his  own,  upon  his  mind, 
his  body,  even  upon  his  very  face,  that  he  turned  instinc- 
tively to  the  nurse,  though  unaware  exactly  what  he 
meant  to  ask  her  for. 

"My  hand-glass,  please,"  he  heard  himself  saying — 
with  horror.  The  phrase  was  not  his  own.  Glass  or 
mirror  were  the  words  he  would  have  used. 

A  moment  later  he  was  staring  with  acute  and  ghastly 
terror  at  a  reflection  that  was  not  his  own.  It  was  the 
face  of  the  dead  girl  he  saw  within  the  silver-handled, 
woman's  hand-glass  he  held  up. 


The  dream  with  its  amazing,  vivid  detail  haunted  him 
for  days,  even  coming  between  him  and  his  work.  It 
seemed  far  more  real,  more  vivid  than  the  commonplace 
events  of  life  that  followed.  The  occurrences  of  the  day 
were  pale  compared  to  its  overpowering  intensity.  And 
a  cable,  received  the  very  next  afternoon,  increased  this 
sense  of  actual  truth — of  something  that  had  really 
happened. 

"Hold  shares  writing  Morris." 

Its  brevity  added  a  convincing  touch.  He  was  aware 
of  Egypt  even  in  Throgmorton  Street.  Yet  it  was  the 
face  of  the  dead,  or  dying,  girl  that  chiefly  haunted  him. 
She  remained  in  his  thoughts,  alive  and  sweet  and  ex- 
quisite. Without  her  he  felt  incomplete,  his  life  a  failure. 
He  thought  of  nothing  else. 

The  affairs  at  the  office,  meanwhile,  went  well ;  un- 
expected success  attended  them ;  there  was  no  strike ; 
the  angry  customer  was  pacified.  And  when  the  promised 
letter  came  from  Morris,  Sanfield's  hands  trembled  so 
violently  that  he  could  hardly  tear  it  open.  Nor  could 
he  read  it  calmly.  The  assurance  about  his  precious  shares 
scarcely  interested  him.  It  was  the  final  paragraph  that 
L 


170  The  Wolves  of  God 

set  his  heart  beating  against  his  ribs  as  though  a  hammer 
lay  inside  him  : 

"...  I've  had  great  trouble  and  anxiety,  though,  thank 
God,  the  danger  is  over  now.  I  forget  if  I  ever  mentioned 
my  sister,  Margaret,  to  you.  She  keeps  house  for  me  in 
Cairo,  when  I'm  there.  She  is  my  only  tie  in  life.  W,ell,  a 
severe  operation  she  had  to  undergo,  all  but  finished  her. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  she  very  nearly  died,  for  the  doctor 
gave  her  up.  You'll  smile  when  I  tell  you  that  odd  things 
happened — at  the  very  last  moment.  I  can't  explain  it,  nor 
can  the  doctor.  It  rather  terrified  me.  But  at  the  very 
moment  when  we  thought  her  gone,  something  revived  in 
her.  She  became  full  of  unexpected  life  and  vigour.  She 
was  even  violent — whereas,  a  moment  before,  she  had  not  the 
strength  to  speak,  much  less  to  move.  It  was  rather  wonder- 
ful, but  it  was  terrible  too. 

"You  don't  believe  in  these  things,  I  know,  but  I  must 
tell  you,  because,  when  she  recovered  consciousness,  she 
began  to  babble  about  yourself,  using  your  name,  though  she 
has  rarely,  if  ever,  heard  it,  and  even  speaking — you  won't 
believe  this,  of  course ! — of  your  shares  in  Deltas,  giving  the 
exact  number  that  you  hold.  When  you  write,  please  tell  me 
if  you  were  very  anxious  about  these  ?  Also,  whether  your 
thoughts  were  directed  particularly  to  me?  I  thought  a 
good  deal  about  you,  knowing  you  might  be  uneasy,  but  my 
mind  was  pretty  full,  as  you  will  understand,  of  her  opera- 
tion at  the  time.  The  climax,  when  all  this  happened,  was 
about  ii  a.m.  on  February  i3th. 

"Don't  fail  to  tell  me  this,  as  I'm  particularly  interested 
in  what  you  may  have  to  say. 

"And,  now,  I  want  to  ask  a  great  favour  of  you.  The 
doctor  forbids  Margaret  to  stay  here  during  the  hot  weather, 
so  I'm  sending  her  home  to  some  cousins  in  Yorkshire,  as 
soon  as  she  is  fit  to  travel.  It  would  be  most  awfully  kind 
— I  know  how  women  bore  you — if  you  could  manage  to  meet 
the  boat  and  help  her  on  her  way  through  London.  I'll  let 
you  know  dates  and  particulars  later,  when  I  hear  that  you 
will  do  this  for  me.  .  .  ." 

Sanfield  hardly  read  the  remainder  of  the  letter,  which 
dealt  with  shares  and  business  matters.    But  a  month  later 


Egyptian  Sorcery  171 

he    stood    on    the    dock-pier   at   Tilbury,    watching    the 
approach  of  the  tender  from  the  Egyptian  Mail. 

He  saw  it  make  fast ;  he  saw  the  stream  of  passengers 
pour  down  the  gangway;  and  he  saw  among  them  the 
tall,  fair  woman  of  his  dream.  With  a  beating  heart  he 
went  to  meet  her.  , 


IX 
THE   DECOY 

IT  belonged  to  the  category  of  unlovely  houses  about 
which  an  ugly  superstition  clings,  one  reason  being,  per- 
haps, its  inability  to  inspire  interest  in  itself  without 
assistance.  It  seemed  too  ordinary  to  possess  individu- 
ality, much  less  to  exert  an  influence.  Solid  and  ungainly, 
its  huge  bulk  dwarfing  the  park  timber,  its  best  claim  to 
notice  was  a  negative  one — it  was  unpretentious. 

From  the  little  hill  its  expressionless  windows  stared 
across  the  Kentish  Weald,  indifferent  to  weather,  dreary 
in  winter,  bleak  in  spring,  unblessed  in  summer.  Some 
colossal  hand  had  tossed  it  down,  then  let  it  starve  to 
death,  a  country  mansion  that  might  well  strain-  the 
adjectives  of  advertisers  and  find  inheritors  with  difficulty. 
Its  soul  had  fled,  said  some;  it  had  committed  suicide, 
thought  others ;  and  it  was  an  inheritor,  before  he  killed 
himself  in  the  library,  who  thought  this  latter,  yielding, 
apparently,  to  an  hereditary  taint  in  the  family.  For  two 
other  inheritors  followed  suit,  with  an  interval  of  twenty 
years  between  them,  and  there  was  no  clear  reason  to 
explain  the  three  disasters.  Only  the  first  owner,  in- 
deed, lived  permanently  in  the  house,  the  others  using  it 
in  the  summer  months  and  then  deserting  it  with  relief. 
Hence,  when  John  Burley,  present  inheritor,  assumed 
possession,  he  entered  a  house  about  which  clung  an 
ugly  superstition,  based,  nevertheless,  upon  a  series  of 
undeniably  ugly  facts. 

This  century  deals  harshly  with  superstitious  folk, 
deeming  them  fools  or  charlatans;  but  John  Burley, 

172 


The  Decoy  173 

robust,  contemptuous  of  half  lights,  did  not  deal  harshly 
with  them,  because  he  did  not  deal  with  them  at  all.  He 
was  hardly  aware  of  their  existence.  He  ignored  them 
as  he  ignored,  say,  the  Esquimaux,  poets,  and  other 
human  aspects  that  did  not  touch  his  scheme  of  life.  A 
successful  business  man,  he  concentrated  on  what  was 
real;  he  dealt  with  business  people.  His  philanthropy, 
on  a  big  scale,  was  also  real ;  yet,  though  he  would  have 
denied  it  vehemently,  he  had  his  superstition  as  well.  No 
man  exists  without  some  taint  of  superstition  in  his  blood ; 
the  racial  heritage  is  too  rich  to  be  escaped  entirely. 
Hurley's  took  this  form — that  unless  he  gave  his  tithe 
to  the  poor  he  would  not  prosper.  This  ugly  mansion, 
he  decided,  would  make  an  ideal  Convalescent  Home. 

"Only  cowards  or  lunatics  kill  themselves,"  he  de- 
clared flatly,  when  his  use  of  the  house  was  criticized. 
" I'm  neither  one  nor  t'other."  He  let  out  his  gusty, 
boisterous  laugh.  In  his  invigorating  atmosphere  such 
weakness  seemed  contemptible,  just  as  superstition  in 
his  presence  seemed  feeblest  ignorance.  Even  its  pic- 
turesqueness  faded.  "I  can't  conceive,"  he  boomed, 
"can't  even  imagine  to  myself,"  he  added  emphatically, 
"the  state  of  mind  in  which  a  man  can  think  of  suicide, 
much  less  do  it."  He  threw  his  chest  out  with  a  chal- 
lenging air.  "  I  tell  you,  Nancy,  it's  either  cowardice 
or  mania.  And  I've  no  use  for  either." 

Yet  he  was  easy-going  and  good-humoured  in  his 
denunciation.  He  admitted  his  limitations  with  a  hearty 
laugh  his  wife  called  noisy.  Thus  he  made  allowances 
for  the  fairy  fears  of  sailorfolk,  and  had  even  been 
known  to  mention  haunted  ships  his  companies  owned. 
But  he  did  so  in  the  terms  of  tonnage  and  £  s.  d.  His 
scope  was  big;  details  were  made  for  clerks. 

His  consent  to  pass  a  night  in  the  mansion  was  the 
consent  of  a  practical  business  man  and  philanthropist 
who  dealt  condescendingly  with  foolish  human  nature. 
It  was  based  on  the  common-sense  of  tonnage  and  £  s.  d. 


174  The  Wolves  of  God 

The  local  newspapers  had  revived  the  silly  story  of  the 
suicides,  calling  attention  to  the  effect  of  the  super- 
stition upon  the  fortunes  of  the  house,  and  so,  possibly, 
upon  the  fortunes  of  its  present  owner.  But  the  mansion, 
otherwise  a  white  elephant,  was  precisely  ideal  for  his 
purpose,  and  so  trivial  a  matter  as  spending-  a  night  in 
it  should  not  stand  in  the  way.  "We  must  take  people 
as  we  find  them,  Nancy." 

His  young  wife  had  her  motive,  of  course,  in  making 
the  proposal,  and,  if  she  was  amused  by  what  she  called 
" spook-hunting,"  he  saw  no  reason  to  refuse  her  the 
indulgence.  He  loved  her,  and  took  her  as  he  found 
her — late  in  life.  To  allay  the  superstitions  of  pros- 
pective staff  and  patients  and  supporters,  all,  in  fact, 
whose  goodwill  was  necessary  to  success,  he  faced  this 
boredom  of  a  night  in  the  building  before  its  opening 
was  announced.  "You  see,  John,  if  you,  the  owner,  do 
this,  it  will  nip  damaging  talk  in  the  bud.  If  anything 
went  wrong  later  it  would  only  be  put  down  to  this  suicide 
idea,  this  haunting  influence.  The  Home  will  have  a 
bad  name  from  the  start.  There'll  be  endless  trouble. 
It  will  be  a  failure." 

"You  think  my  spending  a  night  there  will  stop  the 
nonsense?  "  he  inquired. 

"According  to  the  old  legend  it  breaks  the  spell," 
she  replied.  "That's  the  condition,  anyhow." 

"But  somebody's  sure  to  die  there  sooner  or  later," 
he  objected.  "We  can't  prevent  that." 

"We  can  prevent  people  whispering  that  they  died 
unnaturally."  She  explained  the  working  of  the  public 
mind. 

"I  see,"  he  replied,  his  lip  curling,  yet  quick  to  gauge 
the  truth  of  what  she  told  him  about  collective  instinct. 

"Unless  you  take  poison  in  the  hall,"  she  added 
laughingly,  "or  elect  to  hang  yourself  with  your  braces 
from  the  hat  peg." 

"I'll  do  it,"   he  agreed,   after  a  moment's  thought. 


The  Decoy  175 

"I'll  sit  up  with  you.  It  will  be  like  a  honeymoon  over 
again,  you  and  I  on  the  spree — eh?  "  He  was  even  in- 
terested now;  the  boyish  side  of  him  was  touched  per- 
haps ;  but  his  enthusiasm  was  less  when  she  explained 
that  three  was  a  better  number  than  two  on  such  an 
expedition. 

"I've  often  done  it  before,  John.  We  were  always 
three." 

"Who?  "  'he  asked  bluntly.  He  looked  wonderingly 
at  her,  but  she  answered  that  if  anything  went  wrong  a 
party  of  three  provided  a  better  margin  for  help.  It 
was  sufficiently  obvious.  He  listened  and  agreed.  "I'll 
get  young  Mortimer,"  he  suggested.  "Will  he  do?  " 

She  hesitated.  "Well — he's  cheery;  he'll  be  in- 
terested, too.  Yes,  he's  as  good  as  another."  She 
seemed  indifferent. 

"And  he'll  make  the  time  pass  with  his  stories,"  added 
her  husband. 

So  Captain  Mortimer,  late  officer  on  a  T.B.D.,  a 
"cheery  lad,"  afraid  of  nothing,  cousin  of  Mrs.  Burley, 
and  now  filling  a  good  post  in  the  company's  London 
offices,  was  engaged  as  third  hand  in  the  expedition. 
But  Captain  Mortimer  was  young  and  ardent,  and  Mrs. 
Burley  was  young  and  pretty  and  ill-mated,  and  John 
Burley  was  a  neglectful  and  self-satisfied  husband. 

Fate  laid  the  trap  with  cunning,  and  John  Burley, 
blind-eyed,  careless  of  detail,  floundered  into  it.  He  also 
floundered  out  again,  though  in  a  fashion  none  could 
have  expected  of  'him. 

The  night  agreed  upon  eventually  was  as  near  to  the 
shortest  in  the  year  as  John  Burley  could  contrive — 
June  i8th — when  the  sun  set  at  8.18  and  rose  about  a 
quarter  to  four.  There  would  be  barely  three  hours  of 
true  darkness.  "You're  the  expert,"  he  admitted,  as 
she  explained  that  sitting  through  the  actual  darkness 
only  was  required,  not  necessarily  from  sunset  to  sun- 
rise. "We'll  do  the  thing  properly.  Mortimer's  not 


176  The  Wolves  of  God 

very  keen,  he  had  a  dance  or  something,"  he  added, 
noticing  the  look  of  annoyance  that  flashed  swiftly  in  her 
eyes;  "but  he  got  out  of  it.  He's  coming."  The 
pouting  expression  of  the  spoilt  woman  amused  him. 
"Oh,  no,  he  didn't  need  much  persuading  really,"  he 
assured  her.  "Some  girl  or  other,  of  course.  He's 
young,  remember."  To  which  no  comment  was  forth- 
coming, though  the  implied  comparison  made  her  flush. 

They  motored  from  South  Audley  Street  after  an 
early  tea,  in  due  course  passing  Sevenoaks  and  entering 
the  Kentish  Weald;  and,  in  order  that  the  necessary 
advertisement  should  be  given,  the  chauffeur,  warned 
strictly  to  keep  their  purpose  quiet,  was  to  put  up  at  the 
country  inn  and  fetch  them  an  hour  after  sunrise;  they 
would  breakfast  in  London.  "He'll  tell  everybody," 
said  his  practical  and  cynical  master;  "the  local 
newspaper  will  have  it  all  next  day.  A  few  hours' 
discomfort  is  worth  while  if  it  ends  the  nonsense.  We'll 
read  and  smoke,  and  Mortimer  shall  tell  us  yarns  about 
the  sea."  He  went  with  the  driver  into  the  house  to 
superintend  the  arrangement  of  the  room,  the  lights,  the 
hampers  of  food,  and  so  forth;,  leaving  the  pair  upon  the 
lawn. 

"Four  hours  isn't  much,  but  it's  something,"  whis- 
pered Mortimer,  alone  with  her  for  the  first  time  since 
they  started.  "  It's  simply  ripping  of  you  to  have  got  me 
in.  You  look  divine  to-night.  You're  the  most  wonderful 
woman  in  the  world."  His  blue  eyes  shone  with  the 
hungry  desire  he  mistook  for  love.  He  looked  as  if  he 
had  blown  in  from  the  sea,  for  his  skin  was  tanned  and 
his  light  hair  bleached  a  little  by  the  sun.  He  took  her 
hand,  drawing  her  out  of  the  slanting  sunlight  towards 
the  rhododendrons. 

"I  didn't,  you  silly  boy.  It  was  John  suggested 
your  coming."  She  released  her  hand  with  an  affected 
effort.  "Besides,  you  overdid  it — pretending  you  had  a 
dance." 


ThefDecoy  177 

"You  could  have  objected,"  he  said  eagerly,  "and 
didn't.  Oh,  you're  too  lovely,  you're  delicious  !  "  He 
kissed  her  suddenly  with  passion.  There  was  a  tiny 
struggle,  in  which  she  yielded  too  easily,  he  thought. 

"Harry,  you're  an  idiot!"  she  cried  breathlessly, 
when  he  let  her  go.  "  I  really  don't  know  how  you  dare  ! 
And  John's  your  friend.  Besides,  you  know  " — she 
glanced  round  quickly — -"it  isn't  safe  here."  Her  eyes 
shone  happily,  her  cheeks  were  flaming.  She  looked  what 
she  was,  a  pretty,  young,  lustful  animal,  false  to  ideals, 
true  to  selfish  passion  only.  "Luckily,"  she  added,  "he 
trusts  me  too  fully  to  think  anything." 

The  young  man,  worship  in  his  eyes,  laughed  gaily. 
"There's  no  harm  in  a  kiss,"  he  said.  "You're  a  child 
to  him,  he  never  thinks  of  you  as  a  woman.  Anyhow, 
his  head's  full  of  ships  and  kings  and  sealing-wax,"  he 
comforted  her,  while  respecting  her  sudden  instinct  which 
warned  him  not  to  touch  her  again,  "and  he  never  sees 
anything.  Why,  even  at  ten  yards " 

From  twenty  yards  away  a  big  voice  interrupted  him, 
as  John  Burley  came  round  a  corner  of  the  house  and 
across  the  lawn  towards  them.  The  chauffeur,  he 
announced,  had  left  the  hampers  in  the  room  on  the  first 
floor  and  gone  back  to  the  inn.  "Let's  take  a  walk 
round,"  he  added,  joining  them,  "and  see  the  garden. 
Five  minutes  before  sunset  we'll  go  in  and  feed."  He 
laughed.  "We  must  do  the  thing  faithfully,  you  know, 
mustn't  we,  Nancy?  Dark  to  dark,  remember.  Come 
on,  Mortimer" — he  took  the  young  man's  arm — "a  last 
look  round  before  we  go  in  and  hang  ourselves  from 
adjoining  hooks  in  the  matron's  room  !  "  He  reached  out 
his  free  hand  towards  his  wife. 

"Oh,  hush,  John  !  "  she  said  quickly.  "I  don't  like- 
especially  now  the  dusk  is  coming."  She  shivered,  as 
though  it  were  a  genuine  little  shiver,  pursing  her  lips 
deliciously  as  she  did  so;  whereupon  he  drew  her  forcibly 
to  him,  saying  he  was  sorry,  and  kissed  her  exactly 


178  The  Wolves  of  God 

where  she  had  been  kissed  two  minutes  before,  while 
young-  Mortimer  looked  on.  "We'll  take  care  of  you 
between  us,"  he  said.  Behind  a  broad  back  the  pair  ex- 
changed a  swift  but  meaning  glance,  for  there  was  that 
in  his  tone  which  enjoined  wariness,  and  perhaps  after  all 
he  was  not  so  blind  as  he  appeared.  They  had  their  code, 
these  two.  "All's  well,"  was  signalled;  "but  another 
time  be  more  careful !  " 

There  still  remained  some  minutes'  sunlight  before  the 
huge  red  ball  of  fire  would  sink  behind  the  wooded  hills, 
and  the  trio,  talking  idly,  a  flutter  of  excitement  in  two 
hearts  certainly,  walked  among  the  roses.  It  was  a 
perfect  evening,  windless,  perfumed,  warm.  Headless 
shadows  preceded  them  gigantically  across  the  lawn  as 
they  moved,  and  one  side  of  the  great  building  lay  already 
dark ;  bats  were  flitting,  moths  darted  to  and  fro  above  the 
azalea  and  rhododendron  clumps.  The  talk  turned  chiefly 
on  the  uses  of  the  mansion  as  a  Convalescent  Home,  its 
probable  running  cost,  suitable  staff,  and  so  forth. 

"Come  along,"  John  Burley  said  presently,  breaking 
off  and  turning  abruptly,  "we  must  be  inside,  actually 
inside,  before  the  sun's  gone.  We  must  fulfil  the  con- 
ditions faithfully,"  he  repeated,  as  though  fond  of  the 
phrase.  He  was  in  earnest  over  everything  in  life,  big 
or  little,  once  he  set  his  hand  to  it. 

They  entered,  this  incongruous  trio  of  ghost-hunters, 
no  one  of  them  really  intent  upon  the  business  in  hand, 
and  went  slowly  upstairs  to  the  great  room  where  the 
hampers  lay.  Already  in  the  hall  it  was  dark  enough  for 
three  electric  torches  to  flash  usefully  and  help  their  steps 
as  they  moved  with  caution,  lighting  one  corner  after 
another.  The  air  inside  was  chill  and  damp.  "Like  an 
unused  museum,"  said  Mortimer.  "I  can  smell  the 
specimens."  They  looked  about  them,  sniffing.  "That's 
humanity,"  declared  his  host,  employer,  friend,  "with 
cement  and  whitewash  to  flavour  it " ;  and  all  three 
laughed  as  Mrs.  Burley  said  she  wished  they  had  picked 


The^Decoy  179 

some  roses  and  brought  them  in.  Her  husband  was 
again  in  front  on  the  broad  staircase,  Mortimer  just 
behind  him,  when  she  called  out.  "I  don't  like  being 
last,"  she  exclaimed.  "It's  so  black  behind  me  in  the 
hall.  I'll  come  between  you  two,"  and  the  sailor  took 
her  outstretched  hand,  squeezing  it,  as  he  passed  her  up. 
"There's  a  figure,  remember,"  she  said  hurriedly,  turning 
to  gain  her  husband's  attention,  as  when  she  touched  wood 
at  home.  "A  figure  is  seen;  that's  part  of  the  story. 
The  figure  of  a  man."  She  gave  a  tiny  shiver  of 
pleasurable,  half-imagined  alarm  as  she  took  his  arm. 

"I  hope  we  shall  see  it,"  he  mentioned  prosaically. 

"I  hope  we  shan't,"  she  replied  with  emphasis.  "It's 
only  seen  before — something  happens."  Her  husband 
said  nothing,  while  Mortimer  remarked  facetiously  that  it 
would  be  a  pity  if  they  had  their  trouble  for  nothing. 
"Something  can  hardly  happen  to  all  three  of  us,"  he 
said  lightly,  as  they  entered  a  large  room  where  the  paper- 
hangers  had  conveniently  left  a  rough  table  of  bare  planks. 
Mrs.  Burley,  busy  with  her  own  thoughts,  began  to  un- 
pack the  sandwiches  and  wine.  Her  husband  strolled 
over  to  the  window.  He  seemed  restless. 

"So  this,"  his  deep  voice  startled  her,  "is  where  one 
of  us  " — he  looked  round  him — "is  to " 

"John  !  "  She  stopped  him  sharply,  with  impatience. 
"Several  times  already  I've  begged  you."  Her  voice 
rang  rather  shrill  and  querulous  in  the  empty  room,  a  new 
note  in  it.  She  was  beginning  to  feel  the  atmosphere  of 
the  place,  perhaps.  On  the  sunny  lawn  it  had  not  touched 
her,  but  now,  with  the  fall  of  night,  she  was  aware  of  it, 
as  shadow  called  to  shadow  and  the  kingdom  of  darkness 
gathered  power.  Like  a  great  whispering  gallery,  the 
whole  house  listened. 

"Upon  my  word,  Nancy,"  he  said  with  contrition, 
as  he  came  and  sat  down  beside  her,  "I  quite  forgot 
again.  Only  I  cannot  take  it  seriously.  It's  so  utterly 
unthinkable  to  me  that  a  man " 


i8o          The  Wolves  of  God 

"But  why  evoke  the  idea  at  all?"  she  insisted  in 
a  lowered  voice,  that  snapped  despite  its  faintness.  "Men, 
after  all,  don't  do  such  things  for  nothing. " 

"We  don't  know  everything"  in  the  universe,  do  we?  " 
Mortimer  put  in,  trying  clumsily  to  support  her.  "All 
I  know  just  now  is  that  I'm  famished  and  this  veal  and 
ham  pie  is  delicious."  He  was  very  busy  with  his  knife 
and  fork.  His  foot  rested  lightly  on  her  own  beneath 
the  table ;  he  could  not  keep  his  eyes  off  her  face ;  he 
was  continually  passing  new  edibles  to  her. 

"No,"  agreed  John  Burley,  "not  everything.  You're 
right  there." 

She  kicked  the  younger  man  gently,  flashing  a  warn- 
ing with  her  eyes  as  well,  while  her  husband,  emptying 
his  glass,  his  head  thrown  back,  looked  straight  at  them 
over  the  rim,  apparently  seeing  nothing.  They  smoked 
their  cigarettes  round  the  table,  Burley  lighting  a  big 
cigar.  "Tell  us  about  the  figure,  Nancy?  "  he  inquired. 
"At  least  there's  no  harm  in  that.  It's  new  to  me.  I 
hadn't  heard  about  a  figure."  And  she  did  so  willingly, 
turning  her  chair  sideways  from  the  dangerous,  reckless 
feet.  Mortimer  could  now  no  longer  touch  her.  "  I  know 
very  little,"  she  confessed;  "only  what  the  paper  said. 
It's  a  man.  .  .  .  And  he  changes." 

"How  changes?  "  asked  her  husband.  "Clothes,  you 
mean,  or  what?  " 

Mrs.  Burley  laughed,  as  though  she  was  glad  to 
laugh.  Then  she  answered:  "According  to  the  story, 
he  shows  himself  each  time  to  the  man " 

"The  man  who ?" 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course.  He  appears  to  the  man  who 
dies — as  himself." 

"H'm,"  grunted  her  husband,  naturally  puzzled.  He 
stared  at  her. 

"Each  time  the  chap  saw  his  own  double  " — Mortimer 
came  this  time  usefully  to  the  rescue — "before  he  did  it." 

Considerable    explanation    followed,    involving    much 


The  Decoy  181 

psychic  jargon  from  Mrs.  Burley,  which  fascinated  and 
impressed  the  sailor,  who  thought  her  as  wonderful  as 
she  was  lovely,  showing  it  in  his  eyes  for  all  to  see. 
John  Burley 's  attention  wandered.  He  moved  over  to 
the  window,  leaving  them  to  finish  the  discussion  be- 
tween them ;  he  took  no  part  in  it,  made  no  comment 
even,  merely  listening  idly  and  watching  them  with  an 
air  of  absent-mindedness  through  the  cloud  of  cigar  smoke 
round  his  head.  He  moved  from  window  to  window, 
ensconcing  himself  in  turn  in  each  deep  embrasure, 
examining  the  fastenings,  measuring  the  thick'ness  of 
the  stonework  with  his  handkerchief.  He  seemed  rest- 
less, bored,  obviously  out  of-  place  in  this  ridiculous 
expedition.  On  his  big  massive  face  lay  a  quiet,  re- 
signed expression  his  wife  had  never  seen  before.  She 
noticed  it  now  as,  the  discussion  ended,  the  pair  tidied 
away  the  debris  of  dinner,  lit  the  spirit  lamp  for  coffee 
and  laid  out  a  supper  which  would  be  very  welcome 
with  the  dawn.  A  draught  passed  through  the  room, 
making  the  papers  flutter  on  the  table.  Mortimer  turned 
down  the  smoking  lamps  with  care. 

"Wind's  getting  up  a  bit — from  the  south,"  observed 
Burley  from  his  niche,  closing  one-half  of  the  casement 
window  as  he  said  it.  To  do  this,  he  turned  his  back 
a  moment,  fumbling  for  several  seconds  with  the  latch, 
while  Mortimer,  noting  it,  seized  his  sudden  opportunity 
with  the  foolish  abandon  of  his  age  and  temperament. 
Neither  he  nor  his  victim  perceived  that,  against  the 
outside  darkness,  the  interior  of  the  room  was  plainly 
reflected  in  the  window-pane.  One  reckless,  the  other 
terrified,  they  snatched  the  fearful  joy,  which  might, 
after  all,  have  been  lengthened  by  another  full  half- 
minute,  for  the  head  they  feared,  followed  by  the  shoul- 
ders, pushed  through  the  side  of  the  casement  still  open, 
and  remained  outside,  taking  in  the  night. 

"A  grand  air,"  said  his  deep  voice,  as  the  head  drew 
in  again.  "  I'd  like  to  be  at  sea  a  night  like  this."  He 


182  The  Wolves  of  God 

left  the  casement  open  and  came  across  the  room  towards 
them.  "Now,"  he  said  cheerfully,  arranging-  a  seat  for 
himself,  "let's  get  comfortable  for  the  night.  Mortimer, 
we  expect  stones  from  you  without  ceasing,  until  dawn 
or  the  ghost  arrives.  Horrible  stories  of  chains  and 
headless  men,  remember.  Make  it  a  night  we  shan't 
forget  in  a  hurry."  He  produced  his  gust  of  laughter. 

They  arranged  their  chairs,  with  other  chairs  to  put 
their  feet  on,  and  Mortimer  contrived  a  footstool  by 
means  of  a  hamper  for  the  smallest  feet;  the  air  grew 
thick  with  tobacco  smoke;  eyes  flashed  and  answered, 
watched  perhaps  as  well;  ears  listened  and  perhaps  grew 
wise;  occasionally,  as  a  window  shook,  they  started  and 
looked  round ;  there  were  sounds  about  the  house  from 
time  to  time,  when  the  entering  wind,  using  broken  or 
open  windows,  set  loose  objects  rattling. 

But  Mrs.  Burley  vetoed  'horrible  stories  with  decision. 
A  big,  empty  mansion,  lonely  in  the  country,  and  even 
with  the  comfort  of  John  Burley  and  a  lover  in  it,  has 
its  atmosphere.  Furnished  rooms  are  far  less  ghostly. 
This  atmosphere  now  came  creeping  everywhere,  through 
spacious  'halls  and  sighing  corridors,  silent,  invisible,  but 
all-pervading,  John  Burley  alone  impervious  to  it,  un- 
aware of  its  soft  attack  upon  the  nerves.  It  entered 
possibly  with  the  summer  night  wind,  but  possibly  it 
was  always  there.  .  .  .  And  Mrs.  Burley  looked  often 
at  her  husband,  sitting  near  her  at  an  angle;  the  light 
fell  on  his  fine  strong  face;  she  felt  that,  though  appar- 
ently so  calm  and  quiet,  he  was  really  very  restless ; 
something  about  him  was  a  little  different;  she  could 
not  define  it;  his  mouth  seemed  set  as  with  an 
effort;  he  looked,  she  thought  curiously  to  herself, 
patient  and  very  dignified ;  he  was  rather  a  dear  after  all. 
Why  did  she  think  the  face  inscrutable?  Her  thoughts 
wandered  vaguely,  unease,  discomfort  among  them  some- 
where, while  the  heated  blood — she  had  taken  her  share 
of  wine — seethed  in  her. 


The  Decoy  183 

Burley  turned  to  the  sailor  for  more  stories.  "Sea 
and  wind  in  them,"  he  asked.  "No  horrors,  remem- 
ber !  "  and  Mortimer  told  a  tale  about  the  shortage  of 
rooms  at  a  Welsh  seaside  place  where  spare  rooms 
fetched  fabulous  prices,  and  one  man  alone  refused  to 
let — a  retired  captain  of  a  South  Seas  trader,  very  poor, 
a  bit  crazy  apparently.  He  had  two  furnished  rooms  in 
his  house  worth  twenty  guineas  a  week.  The  rooms 
faced  south;  he  kept  them  full  of  flowers;  but  he  would 
not  let.  An  explanation  of  his  unworldly  obstinacy 
was  not  forthcoming  until  Mortimer — they  fished  to- 
gether— gained  his  confidence.  "The  South  Wind  lives 
in  them,"  the  old  fellow  told  him.  "I  keep  them  free 
for  her." 

"For  her?" 

"It  was  on  the  South  Wind  my  love  came  to  me," 
said  the  other  softly;  "and  it  was  on  the  South  Wind 
that  she  left- 
It  was  an  odd  tale  to  tell  in  such  company,  but  he 
told  it  well. 

"Beautiful,"  thought  Mrs.  Burley.  Aloud  she  said 
a  quiet,  "Thank  you.  By  '  left,'  I  suppose  he  meant  she 
died  or  ran  away?  " 

John  Burley  looked  up  with  a  certain  surprise.  "We 
ask  for  a  story,"  he  said,  "and  you  give  us  a  poem." 
He  laughed.  "You're  in  love,  Mortimer,"  he  informed 
him,  "and  with  my  wife  probably." 

"Of  course  I  am,  sir,"  replied  the  young  man  gal- 
lantly. "A  sailor's  heart,  you  know,"  while  the  face  of 
the  woman  turned  pink,  then  white.  She  knew  her 
husband  more  intimately  than  Mortimer  did,  and  there 
was  something  in  his  tone,  his  eyes,  his  words,  she  did 
not  like.  Harry  was  an  idiot  to  choose  such  a  tale.  An 
irritated  annoyance  stirred  in  her,  close  upon  dis- 
like. "Anyhow,  it's  better  than  horrors,"  she  said 
hurriedly. 

"Well,"   put  in   her  husband,    letting   forth   a   minor 


184  The  Wolves  of  God 

gust  of  laughter,  "it's  possible,  at  any  rate.  Though 
one's  as  crazy  as  the  other."  His  meaning  was  not 
wholly  clear.  "If  a  man  really  loved,"  he  added  in  his 
blunt  fashion,  "and  was  tricked  by  her,  I  could  almost 
conceive  his " 

"Oh,  don't  preach,  John,  for  Heaven's  sake.  You're 
so\  dull  in  the  pulpit."  But  the  interruption  only  served 
to  emphasize  the  sentence  which,  otherwise,  might  have 
been  passed  over. 

"Could  conceive  his  finding  life  so  worthless,"  per- 
sisted the  other,  "that "  He  hesitated.  "But  there, 

now,  I  promised  I  wouldn't,"  he  went  on,  laughing  good- 
humouredly.  Then,  suddenly,  as  though  in  spite  of 
himself,  driven  it  seemed:  "Still,  under  such  conditions, 
he  might  show  his  contempt  for  human  nature  and  for 
life  by " 

It  was  a  tiny  stifled  scream  that  stopped  him  this 
time. 

"John,  I  hate,  I  loathe  you,  when  you  talk  like  that. 
And  you've  broken  your  word  again."  She  was  more 
than  petulant ;  a  nervous  anger  sounded  in  her  voice.  It 
was  the  way  he  had  said  it,  looking  from  them  towards 
the  window,  that  made  her  quiver.  She  felt  him  sud- 
denly as  a  man ;  she  felt  afraid  of  him. 

Her  husband  made  no  reply ;  he  rose  and  looked  at 
his  watch,  leaning  sideways  towards  the  lamp,  so  that  the 
expression  of  his  face  was  shaded.  "Two  o'clock,"  he 
remarked.  "I  think  I'll  take  a  turn  through  the  house. 
I  may  find  a  workman  asleep  or  something.  Anyhow,  the 
light  will  soon  come  now."  He  laughed;  the  expression 
of  his  face,  his  tone  of  voice,  relieved  her  momentarily. 
He  went  out.  They  heard  his  heavy  tread  echoing  down 
the  carpetless  long  corridor. 

Mortimer  began  at  once.  "Did  he  mean  anything?  " 
he  asked  breathlessly.  "He  doesn't  love  you  the  least 
little  bit,  anyhow.  He  never  did.  I  do.  You're  wasted 
on  him.  You  belong  to  me."  The  words  poured  out. 


The  Decoy  185 

He  covered  her  face  with  kisses.  "Oh,  I  didn't  mean 
that/'  he  caught  between  the  kisses. 

The  sailor  released  her,  staring.  "What  then?"  he 
whispered.  " Do  you  think  he  saw  us  on  the  lawn?  "  He 
paused  a  moment,  as  she  made  no  reply.  The  steps  were 
audible  in  the  distance  still.  "I  know!"  he  exclaimed 
suddenly.  "  It's  the  blessed  house  he  feels.  That's  what 
it  is.  He  doesn't  like  it." 

A  wind  sighed  through  the  room,  making  the  papers 
flutter;  something  rattled;  and  Mrs.  Burley  started.  A 
loose  end  of  rope  swinging  from  the  paperhanger's  ladder 
caught  her  eye.  She  shivered  slightly. 

"He's  different,"  she  replied  in  a  low  voice,  nestling 
very  close  again,  "and  so  restless.  Didn't  you  notice 
what  he  said  just  now — that  under  certain  conditions  he 
could  understand  a  man  " — she  hesitated — "doing  it,"  she 
concluded,  a  sudden  drop  lin  her  voice.  "Harry,"  she 
looked  full  into  his  eyes,  "that's  not  like  him.  He  didn't 
say  that  for  nothing." 

"Nonsense  !  He's  bored  to  tears,  that's  all.  And  the 
house  is  getting  on  your  nerves,  too."  He  kissed  her 
tenderly.  Then,  as  she  responded,  he  drew  her  nearer 
still  and  held  her  passionately,  mumbling  (incoherent 
words,  among  which  "nothing  to  be  afraid  of  "  was  dis- 
tinguishable. Meanwhile,  the  steps  were  coming  nearer. 
She  pushed  him  away.  "  You  must  behave  yourself.  I  insist. 
You  shall,  Harry,"  then  buried  herself  in  his  arms,  her  face 
hidden  against  his  neck — only  to  disentangle  herself  the 
next  instant  and  stand  clear  of  him.  "  I  hate  you,  Harry," 
she  exclaimed  sharply,  a  look  of  angry  annoyance  flash- 
ing across  her  face.  "And  I  hate  myself.  Why  do  you 

treat  me ?  "  She  broke  off  as  the  steps  came  closer, 

patted  her  hair  straight,  and  stalked  over  to  the  open 
window. 

"I  believe  after  all  you're  only  playing  with  me,"  he 
said  viciously.  He  stared  in  surprised  disappointment, 
watching  her.  "It's  him  you  really  love,"  he  added 
If 


i86  The  Wolves  of  God 

jealously.  He  looked  and  spoke  like  a  petulant  spoilt 
boy. 

She  did  not  turn  her  head.  "  He's  always  been  fair  to 
me,  kind  and  generous.  He  never  blames  me  for  any- 
thing. Give  me  a  cigarette  and  don't  play  the  stage 
hero.  My  nerves  are  on  edge,  to  tell  you  the  truth." 
Her  voice  jarred  harshly,  and  as  he  lit  her  cigarette  he 
noticed  that  her  lips  were  trembling;  his  own  hand 
trembled  too.  He  was  still  holding  the  match,  standing 
beside  her  at  the  window-sill,  when  the  steps  crossed  the 
threshold  and  John  Burley  came  into  the  room.  He  went 
straight  up  to  the  table  and  turned  the  lamp  down.  "  It 
was  smoking,"  he  remarked.  "Didn't  you  see?  " 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,"  and  Mortimer  sprang  forward,  too 
late  to  help  him.  "It  was  the  draught  as  you  pushed 
the  door  open."  The  big  man  said,  "Ah!  "  and  drew  a 
chair  over,  facing  them.  "It's  just  the  very  house,"  he 
told  them.  "I've  been  through  every  room  on  this  floor. 
It  will  make  a  splendid  Home,  with  very  little  alteration, 
too."  He  turned  round  in  his  creaking  wicker  chair  and 
looked  up  at  his  wife,  who  sat  swinging  her  legs  and 
smoking  in  the  window  embrasure.  "  Lives  will  be  saved 
inside  these  old  walls.  It's  a  good  investment,"  he  went 
on,  talking  rather  to  himself  it  seemed.  "People  will 
die  here,  too " 

"Hark!  "  Mrs,  Burley  interrupted  him.  "That  noise 
— what  is  it?  "  A  faint  thudding  sound  in  the  corridor 
or  in  the  adjoining  room  was  audible,  making  all  three 
look  round  quickly,  listening  for  a  repetition,  which  did 
not  come.  The  papers  fluttered  on  the  table,  the  lamps 
smoked  an  instant. 

"Wind,"  observed  Burley  calmly,  "our  little  friend, 
the  South  Wind.  Something  blown  over  again,  that's 
all."  But,  curiously,  the  three  of  them  stood  up.  "I'll 
go  and  see,"  he  continued.  "Doors  and  windows  are  all 
open  to  let  the  paint  dry."  Yet  he  did  not  move;  he 
stood  there  watching  a  white  moth  that  dashed  round 


The  Decoy  187 


and  round  the  lamp,  flopping  heavily  now  and  again  upon 
the  bare  deal  table. 

"Let  me  go,  sir,"  put  in  Mortimer  eagerly.  He  was 
glad  of  the  chance;  for  the  first  time  he,  too,  felt  un- 
comfortable. But  there  was  another  who,  apparently, 
suffered  a  discomfort  greater  than  his  own  and  was  accord- 
ingly even  more  glad  to  get  away.  "I'll  go,"  Mrs.  Burley 
announced,  with  decision.  "I'd  like  to.  I  haven't  been 
out  of  this  room  since  we  came.  I'm  not  an  atom 
afraid." 

It  was  strange  that  for  a  moment  she  did  not  make  a 
move  either;  it  seemed  as  if  she  waited  for  something. 
For  perhaps  fifteen  seconds  no  one  stirred  or  spoke.  She 
knew  by  the  look  in  her  lover's  eyes  that  he  had  now 
become  aware  of  the  slight,  indefinite  change  in  her 
husband's  manner,  and  was  alarmed  by  it.  The  fear  in 
him  woke  her  contempt;  she  suddenly  despised  the  youth, 
and  was  conscious  of  a  new,  strange  yearning  towards 
her  husband ;  against  her  worked  nameless  pressures, 
troubling  her  being.  There  was  an  alteration  in  the 
room,  she  thought ;  something  had  come  in.  The  trio 
stood  listening  to  the  gentle  wind  outside,  waiting  for 
the  sound  to  be  repeated ;  two  careless,  passionate  young 
lovers  and  a  man  stood  waiting,  listening,  watching 
in  that  room ;  yet  it  seemed  there  were  five  persons  alto- 
gether and  not  three,  for  two  guilty  consciences  stood 
apart  and  separate  from  their  owners.  John  Burley  broke 
the  silence. 

"Yes,  you  go,  Nancy.  Nothing  to  be  afraid  of — there. 
It's  only  wind."  He  spoke  as  though  he  meant  it. 

Mortimer  bit  his  lips.  "I'll  come  with  you,"  he 
said  instantly.  He  was  confused.  "Let's  all  three 
go.  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  be  separated."  But  Mrs. 
Burley  was  already  at  the  door.  "I  insist,"  she  said, 
with  a  forced  laugh.  "I'll  call  if  I'm  frightened,"  while 
her  husband,  saying  nothing,  watched  her  from  the 
table. 


i88  The  Wolves  of  God 

"Take  this,"  said  the  sailor,  flashing  his  electric  torch 
as  he  went  over  to  her.  "Two  are  better  than  one."  He 
saw  her  figure  exquisitely  silhouetted  against  the  black 
corridor  beyond;  it  was  clear  she  wanted  to  go;  any 
nervousness  in  her  was  mastered  by  a  stronger  emotion 
still;  she  was  glad  to  be  out  of  their  presence  for  a  bit. 
He  had  hoped  to  snatch  a  word  of  explanation  in  the  cor- 
ridor, but  her  manner  stopped  him.  Something  else 
stopped  him,  too. 

"First  door  on  the  left,"  he  called  out,  his  voice  echo- 
ing down  the  empty  length.  "That's  the  room  where 
the  noise  came  from.  Shout  if  you  want  us." 

He  watched  her  moving  away,  the  light  held  steadily 
in  front  of  her,  but  she  made  no  answer,  and  he  turned 
back  to  see  John  Burley  lighting  his  cigar  at  the  lamp 
chimney,  his  face  thrust  forward  as  he  did  so.  He  stood 
a  second,  watching  him,  as  the  lips  sucked  hard  at  the 
cigar  to  make  it  draw;  the  strength  of  the  features  was 
emphasized  to  sternness.  He  had  meant  to  stand  by  the 
door  and  listen  for  the  least  sound  from  the  adjoining 
room,  but  now  found  his  whole  attention  focused  on  the 
face  above  the  lamp.  In  that  minute  he  realized  that 
Burley  had  wished — had  meant — his  wife  to  go.  In  that 
minute  also  he  forgot  his  love,  his  shameless,  selfish  little 
mistress,  his  worthless,  caddish  little  self.  For  John 
Burley  looked  up.  He  straightened  slowly,  puffing  hard 
and  quickly  to  make  sure  his  cigar  was  lit,  and  faced 
him.  Mortimer  moved  forward  into  the  room,  self-con- 
scious, embarrassed,  cold. 

"Of  course  it  was  only  wind,"  he  said  lightly,  his  one 
desire  being  to  fill  the  interval  while  they  were  alone  with 
commonplaces.  He  did  not  wish  the  other  to  speak. 
"Dawn  wind,  probably."  He  glanced  at  his  wrist-watch. 
"It's  half-past  two  already,  and  the  sun  gets  up  at  a 
quarter  to  four.  It's  light  by  now,  I  expect.  The  short- 
est night  is  never  quite  dark."  He  rambled  on  con- 
fusedly, for  the  other's  steady,  silent  stare  embarrassed 


The  Decoy  189 

him.  A  faint  sound  of  Mrs.  Burley  moving  in  the  next 
room  made  him  stop  a  moment.  He  turned  instinctively 
to  the  door,  eager  for  an  excuse  to  go. 

"That's  nothing,"  said  Burley,  speaking  at  last  and  in 
a  firm  quiet  voice.  "Only  my  wife,  glad  to  be  alpne — 
my  young  and  pretty  wife.  She's  all  right.  I  know  her 
better  than  you  do.  Come  in  and  shut  the  door." 

Mortimer  obeyed.  He  closed  the  door  and  came  close 
to  the  table,  facing  the  other,  who  at  once  continued. 

"If  I  thought,"  he  said,  in  that  quiet  deep  voice,  "that 
you  two  were  serious  " — he  uttered  his  words  very  slowly, 
with  emphasis,  with  intense  severity — "  do  you  know  what 
I  should  do?  I  will  tell  you,  Mortimer.  I  should  like 
one  of  us  two — you  or  myself — to  remain  in  this  house, 
dead." 

His  teeth  gripped  his  cigar  tightly;  his  hands  were 
clenched;  he  went  on  through  a  half-closed  mouth.  His 
eyes  blazed  steadily. 

"I  trust  her  so  absolutely — understand  me? — that  my 
belief  in  women,  in  human  beings,  would  go.  And  with 
it  the  desire  to  live.  Understand  me?  " 

Each  word  to  the  young  careless  fool  was  a  blow  in 
the  face,  yet  it  was  the  softest  blow,  the  flash  of  a  big 
deep  heart,  that  hurt  the  most.  A  dozen  answers — denial, 
explanation,  confession,  taking  all  guilt  upon  himself — 
crowded  his  mind,  only  to  be  dismissed.  He  stood  motion- 
less and  silent,  staring  hard  into  the  other's  eyes.  No 
word  passed  his  lips ;  there  was  no  time  in  any  case.  It 
was  in  this  position  that  Mrs.  Burley,  entering  at  that 
moment,  found  them.  She  saw  her  husband's  face;  the 
other  man  stood  with  his  back  to  her.  She  came  in  with 
a  little  nervous  laugh.  "A  bell-rope  swinging  in  the  wind 
and  hitting  a  sheet  of  metal  before  the  fireplace,"  she 
informed  them.  And  all  three  laughed  together  then, 
though  each  laugh  had  a  different  sound.  "  But  I  hate 
this  house,"  she  added.  "I  wish  we  had  never  come." 

"The  moment  there's  light  in  the  sky,"  remarked  her 


The  Wolves  of  God 

husband  quietly,  "we  can  leave.  That's  the  contract; 
let's  see  it  through.  Another  half-hour  will  do  it.  Sit 
down,  Nancy,  and  have  a  bite  of  something."  He  got  up 
and  placed  a  chair  for  her.  "I  think  I'll  take  another 
look  round."  He  moved  slowly  to  the  door.  "I  may 
go  out  on  to  the  lawn  a  bit  and  see  what  the  sky  is 
doing." 

It  did  not  take  half  a  minute  to  say  the  words,  yet 
to  Mortimer  it  seemed  as  though  the  voice  would  never 
end.  His  mind  was  confused  and  troubled.  He  loathed 
himself,  he  loathed  the  woman  through  whom  he  had 
got  into  this  awkward  mess. 

The  situation  had  suddenly  become  extremely  pain- 
ful; he  had  never  imagined  such  a  thing;  the  man  he 
had  thought  blind  had  after  all  seen  everything — known 
it  all  along,  watched  them,  waited.  And  the  woman, 
he  was  now  certain,  loved  her  husband;  she  had  fooled 
him,  Mortimer,  all  along,  amusing  herself. 

"I'll  come  with  you,  sir.  Do  let  me,"  he  said  sud- 
denly. Mrs.  Burley  stood  pale  and  uncertain  between 
them.  She  looked  scared.  What  has  happened,  she  was 
clearly  wondering. 

"No,  no,  Harry" — he  called  him  "Harry"  for  the 
first  time — "I'll  be  back  in  five  minutes  at  most.  My 
wife  mustn't  be  alone  either."  And  he  went  out. 

The  young  man  waited  till  the  footsteps  sounded  some 
distance  down  the  corridor,  then  turned,  but  he  did  not 
move  forward ;  for  the  first  time  he  let  pass  unused  what 
he  called  "an  opportunity."  His  passion  had  left  him; 
his  love,  as  he  once  thought  it,  was  gone.  He  looked  at 
the  pretty  woman  near  him,  wondering  blankly  what  he 
had  ever  seen  there  to  attract  him  so  wildly.  He  wished 
to  Heaven  he  was  out  of  it  all.  He  wished  he  were  dead. 
John  Burley 's  words  suddenly  appalled  him. 

One  thing  he  saw  plainly — she  was  frightened.  This 
opened  his  lips. 

"What's  the  matter?  "  he  asked,  and  his  hushed  voice 


The  Decoy  191 

shirked  the  familiar  Christian  name.  "Did  you  see  any- 
thing? "  He  nodded  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  ad- 
joining room.  It  was  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  address- 
ing her  coldly  that  made  him  abruptly  see  himself  as  he 
really  was,  but  it  was  her  reply,  honestly  given,  in  a  faint 
even  voice,  that  told  him  she  saw  her  own  self  too  with 
similar  clarity.  God,  he  thought,  how  revealing  a  tone, 
a  single  word  can  be ! 

"I  saw — nothing.  Only  I  feel  uneasy — dear."  That 
"  dear  "  was  a  call  for  help. 

"Look  here,"  he  cried,  so  loud  that  she  held  up  a 
warning  finger,  "I'm — I've  been  a  damned  fool,  a  cad! 
I'm  most  frightfully  ashamed.  I'll  do  anything — any- 
thing to  get  it  right."  He  felt  cold,  naked,  his  worthless- 
ness  laid  bare;  she  felt,  he  knew,  the  same.  Each 
revolted  suddenly  from  the  other.  Yet  he  knew  not  quite 
how  or  wherefore  this  great  change  had  thus  abruptly 
come  about,  especially  on  her  side.  He  felt  that  a  bigger, 
deeper  emotion  than  he  could  understand  was  working 
on  them,  making  mere  physical  relationships  seem  empty, 
trivial,  cheap  and  vulgar.  His  cold  increased  in  face  of 
this  utter  ignorance. 

"Uneasy?"  he  repeated,  perhaps  hardly  knowing 
exactly  why  he  said  it.  "Good  Lord,  but  he  can  take 
care  of  himself " 

"Oh,  he  is  a  man,"  she  interrupted;   "yes." 

Steps  were  heard,  firm,  heavy  steps,  coming  back 
along  the  corridor.  It  seemed  to  Mortimer  that  he  had 
listened  to  this  sound  of  steps  all  night,  and  would  listen 
to  them  till  he  died.  He  crossed  to  the  lamp  and  lit  a 
cigarette,  carefully  this  time,  turning  the  wick  down 
afterwards.  Mrs.  Burley  also  rose,  moving  over  towards 
the  door,  away  from  him.  They  listened  a  moment  to 
these  firm  and  heavy  steps,  the  tread  of  a  man,  John 
Burley.  A  man  .  .  .  and  a  philanderer,  flashed  across 
Mortimer's  brain  like  fire,  contrasting  the  two  with  fierce 
contempt  for  himself.  The  tread  became  less  audible. 


192  The  Wolves  of  God 

There  was  distance  in  it.  It  had  turned  in  some- 
where. 

"There!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  hushed  tone.  "He's 
gone  in." 

"•Nonsense  !  It  passed  us.  He's  going  out  on  to  the 
lawn." 

The  pair  listened  breathlessly  for  a  moment,  when 
the  sound  of  steps  came  distinctly  from  the  adjoining 
room,  walking  across  the  boards,  apparently  towards  the 
window. 

"There  !  "  she  repeated.  "We  did  go  in."  Silence  of 
perhaps  a  minute  followed,  in  which  they  heard  each 
other's  breathing.  "I  don't  like  his  being  alone — in 
there,"  Mrs.  Burley  said  in  a  thin  faltering  voice,  and 
moved  as  though  to  go  out.  Her  hand  was  already  on 
the  knob  of  the  door,  when  Mortimer  stopped  her  with 
a  violent  gesture. 

"Don't!  For  God's  sake,  don't!"  he  cried,  before 
she  could  turn  it.  He  darted  forward.  As  he  laid  a 
hand  upon  her  arm  a  thud  was  audible  through  the  wall. 
It  was  a  heavy  sound,  and  this  time  there  was  no  wind  to 
cause  it. 

"It's  only  that  loose  swinging  thing,"  he  whispered 
thickly,  a  dreadful  confusion  blotting  out  clear  thought 
and  speech. 

"There  was  no  loose  swaying  thing  at  all,"  she  said 
in  a  failing  voice,  then  reeled  and  swayed  against  him. 
"I  invented  that.  There  was  nothing."  As  he  caught 
her,  staring  helplessly,  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  face 
with  lifted  lids  rushed  up  at  him.  He  saw  two  terrified 
eyes  in  a  patch  of  ghastly  white.  Her  whisper  followed, 
as  she  sank  into  his  arms.  "It's  John.  He's " 

At  which  instant,  with  terror  at  its  climax,  the  sound 
of  steps  suddenly  became  audible  once  more — the  firm 
and  heavy  tread  of  John  Burley  coming  out  again  into 
the  corridor.  Such  was  their  amazement  and  relief  that 
\hey  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  The  steps  drew  nearer. 


The  Decoy  193 

The  pair  seemed  petrified ;  Mortimer  did  not  remove  his 
arms,  nor  did  Mrs.  Burley  attempt  to  release  herself. 
They  stared  at  the  door  and  waited.  It  was  pushed 
wider  the  next  second,  and  John  Burley  stood  beside 
them.  He  was  so  close  he  almost  touched  them — there 
in  each  other's  arms. 

"Jack,  dear  !  "  cried  his  wife,  with  a  searching*  tender- 
ness that  made  her  voice  seem  strange. 

He  gazed  a  second  at  each  in  turn.  "I'm  going 
out  on  to  the  lawn  for  a  moment,"  he  said  quietly. 
There  was  no  expression  on  his  face;  he  did  not  smile, 
he  did  not  frown ;  he  showed  no  feeling,  no  emotion — 
just  looked  into  their  eyes,  and  then  withdrew  round  the 
edge  of  the  door  before  either  could  utter  a  word  in 
answer.  The  door  swung  to  behind  him.  He  was  gone. 

"He's  going  to  the  lawn.  He  said  so."  It  was 
Mortimer  speaking,  but  his  voice  shook  and  stammered. 
Mrs.  Burley  had  released  herself.  She  stood  now  by 
the  table,  silent,  gazing  with  fixed  eyes  at  nothing,  her 
lips  parted,  her  expression  vacant.  Again  she  was 
aware  of  an  alteration  in  the  room;  something  had  gone 
out.  .  .  .  He  watched  her  a  second,  uncertain  what 
to  say  or  do.  It  was  the  face  of  a  drowned  person, 
occurred  to  him.  Something  intangible,  yet  almost  visible 
stood  between  them  in  that  narrow  space.  Something 
had  ended,  there  before  his  eyes,  definitely  ended.  The 
barrier  between  them,  rose  higher,  denser.  Through  this 
barrier  her  words  came  to  him  with  an  odd  whispering 
remoteness. 

"Harry.  .  .  .  You  saw?     You  noticed?" 

"What  d'you  mean?"  he  said  gruffly.  He  tried  to 
feel  angry,  contemptuous,  but  his  breath  caught  absurdly. 

"Harry— he  was  different.  The  eyes,  the  hair,  the" 
— her  face  grew  like  death — "the  twist  in  his  face " 

"What  on  earth  are  you  saying?  Pull  yourself 
together."  He  saw  that  she  was  trembling  down  the 
whole  length  of  her  body,  as  she  leaned  against  the  table 


194  The  Wolves  of  God 

for  support.  His  own  legs  shook.  He  stared  hard  at 
her. 

"Altered,  Harry  .  .  .  altered."  Her  horrified  whisper 
came  at  him  like  a  knife.  For  it  was  true.  He,  too, 
had  noticed  something  about  the  husband's  appearance 
that  was  not  quite  normal.  Yet,  even  while  they  talked, 
they  heard  him  going  down  the  carpetless  stairs ;  the 
sounds  ceased  as  he  crossed  the  hall;  then  came  .the 
noise  of  the  front  door  banging,  the  reverberation  even 
shaking  the  room  a  little  where  they  stood. 

Mortimer  went  over  to  her  side.     He  walked  unevenly. 

"My  dear!  For  God's  sake — this  is  sheer  nonsense. 
Don't  let  yourself  go  like  this.  I'll  put  it  straight  with 
him — it's  all  my  fault."  He  saw  by  her  face  that  she 
did  not  understand  his  words;  he  was  saying  the  wrong 
thing  altogether;  her  mind  was  utterly  elsewhere.  "He's 
all  right,"  he  went  on  hurriedly.  "He's  out  on  the 
lawn  now " 

He  broke  off  at  the  sight  of  her.  The  horror  that 
fastened  on  her  brain  plastered  her  face  with  deathly 
whiteness. 

"That  was  not  John  at  all!"  she  cried,  a  wail  of 
misery  and  terror  in  her  voice.  She  rushed  to  the 
window  and  he  followed.  To  his  immense  relief  a  figure 
moving  below  was  plainly  visible.  It  was  John  Burley. 
They  saw  him  in  the  faint  grey  of  the  dawn,  as  he  crossed 
the  lawn,  going  away  from  the  house.  He  disappeared. 

"There  you  are!  See?"  whispered  Mortimer  re- 
assuringly. "  He'll  be  back  in — > — "  when  a  sound  in  the 
adjoining  room,  heavier,  louder  than  before,  cut  appal- 
lingly across  his  words,  and  Mrs.  Burley,  with  that 
wailing  scream,  fell  back  into  his  arms.  He  caught  her 
only  just  in  time,  for  he  stiffened  into  ice,  daft  with  the 
uncomprehended  terror  of  it  all,  and  helpless  as  a  child. 

"Darling,  my  darling — oh,  God  !  "  He  bent,  kissing 
her  face  wildly.  He  was  utterly  distraught. 

"  Harry  !    Jack — oh,  oh  !  "  she  wailed  in  her  anguish. 


The  Decoy  195 

"  It  took  on  his  likeness.  It  deceived  us  ...  to  give  him 
time.  He's  done  it." 

She  sat  up  suddenly.  "Go,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the 
room  beyond,  then  sank  fainting-,  a  dead  weight  in  his 
arms. 

He  carried  her  unconscious  body  to  a  chair,  then 
entering  the  adjoining  room  he  flashed  his  to-rch  upon 
the  body  of  her  husband  hanging  from  a  bracket  in  the 
wall.  He  cut  it  down  five  minutes  too  late. 


X 
THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  OUT 

(A   NIGHTMARE) 


PROFESSOR  MARK  EBOR,  the  scientist,  led  a  double  life, 
and  the  only  persons  who  knew  it  were  his  assistant, 
Dr.  Laidlaw,  and  his  publishers.  But  a  double  life  need 
not  always  be  a  bad  one,  and,  as  Dr.  Laidlaw  and  the 
gratified  publishers  well  knew,  the  parallel  lives  of  this 
particular  man  were  equally  good,  and  indefinitely  pro- 
duced would  certainly  have  ended  in  a  heaven  somewhere 
that  can  suitably  contain  such  strangely  opposite  charac- 
teristics as  his  remarkable  personality  combined. 

For  Mark  Ebor,  F.R.S.,  etc.,  etc.,  was  that  unique 
combination  hardly  ever  met  with  in  actual  life,  a  man 
of  science  and  a  mystic. 

As  the  first,  his  name  stood  in  the  gallery  of  the 
great,  and  as  the  second — but  there  came  the  mystery  ! 
For  under  the  pseudonym  of  "  Pilgrim "  (the  author  of 
that  brilliant  series  of  books  that  appealed  to  so  many), 
his  identity  was  as  well  concealed  as  that  of  the  anony- 
mous writer  of  the  weather  reports  in  a  daily  newspaper. 
Thousands  read  the  sanguine,  optimistic,  stimulating 
little  books  that  issued  annually  from  the  pen  of 
"Pilgrim,"  and  thousands  bore  their  daily  burdens  better 
for  having  read ;  while  the  Press  generally  agreed  that 
the  author,  besides  being  an  incorrigible  enthusiast  and 
optimist,  was  also — a  woman ;  but  no  one  ever  succeeded 
in  penetrating  the  veil  of  anonymity  and  discovering 

196 


The  Man  who  Found  Out      197 

that  "Pilgrim"  and  the  biologist  were  one  and  the  same 
person. 

Mark  Ebor,  as  Dr.  Laidlaw  knew  him  in  his  labora- 
tory, was  one  man";  but  Mark  Ebor,  as  he  sometimes 
saw  him  after  work  was  over,  with  rapt  eyes  and  ecstatic 
face,  discussing  the  possibilities  of  "  union  with  God  " 
and  the  future  of  the  human  race,  was  quite  another. 

"I  have  always  held,  as  you  know,"  he  was  saying 
one  evening  as  he  sat  in  the  little  study  beyond  the 
laboratory  with  his  assistant  and  intimate,  "that  Vision 
should  play  ,a  large  part  in  the  life  of  the  awakened  man 
— not  to  be  regarded  as  infallible,  of  course,  but  to  be 
observed  and  made  use  of  as  a  guide-post  to  possi- 
bilities  " 

"I  am  aware  of  your  peculiar  views,  sir,"  the  young 
doctor  put  in  deferentially,  yet  with  a  certain  impatience. 

"  For  Visions  come  from  a  region  of  the  consciousness 
where  observation  and  experiment  are  out  of  the  ques- 
tion," pursued  the  other  with  enthusiasm,  not  noticing 
the  interruption,  "and,  while  they  should  be  checked 
by  reason  afterwards,  they  should  not  be  laughed  at  or 
ignored.  All  inspiration,  I  hold,  is  of  the  nature  of 
interior  Vision,  and  all  our  best  knowledge  has  come 
— such  is  my  confirmed  belief — as  a  sudden  revelation  to 
the  brain  prepared  to  receive  it " 

"Prepared  by  hard  work  first,  by  concentration,  by 
the  closest  possible  study  of  ordinary  phenomena,"  Dr. 
Laidlaw  allowed  himself  to  observe. 

"Perhaps,"  sighed  the  other;  "but  by  a  process,  none 
the  less,  of  spiritual  illumination.  The  best  match  in 
the  world  will  not  light  a  candle  unless-  the  wick  be 
first  suitably  prepared." 

It  was  Laidlaw 's  turn  to  sigh.  He  knew  so  well 
the  impossibility  of  arguing  with  his  chief  when  he  was 
in  the  regions  of  the  mystic,  but  at  the  same  time  the 
respect  he  felt  for  his  tremendous  attainments  was  so 
sincere  that  he  always  listened  with  attention  and  defer- 


i98  The  Wolves  of  God 

ence,  wondering-  how  far  the  great  man  would  go  and 
to  what  end  this  curious  combination  of  logic  and 
"illumination"  would  eventually  lead  him. 

"Only  last  night,"  continued  the  elder  man,  a  sort 
of  light  coming  into  his  rugged  features,  "the  vision 
came  to  me  again — the  one  that  has  haunted  me  at 
intervals  ever  since  my  youth,  and  that  will  not  be 
denied." 

Dr.   Laidlaw  fidgeted  in  his  chair. 

"About  the  Tablets  of  the  Gods,  you  mean — and  that 
they  lie  somewhere  hidden  in  the  sands,"  he  said 
patiently.  A  sudden  gleam  of  interest  came  into  his 
face  as  he  turned  to  catch  the  professor's  reply. 

"And  that  I  am  to  be  the  one  to  find  them,  to  de- 
cipher them,  and  to  give  the  great  knowledge  to  the 
world " 

"Who  will  not  believe,"  laughed  Laidlaw  shortly, 
yet  interested  in  spite  of  his  thinly-veiled  contempt. 

"Because  even  the  keenest  minds,  in  the  right  sense 
of  the  word,  are  hopelessly — unscientific,"  replied  the 
other  gently,  his  face  positively  aglow  with  the  memory 
of  his  vision.  "Yet  what  is  more  likely,"  he  continued 
after  a  moment's  pause,  peering  into  space  with  rapt 
eyes  that  saw  things  too  wonderful  for  exact  language 
to  describe,  "than  that  there  should  have  been  given 
to  man  in  the  first  ages  of  the  world  some  record  of 
the  purpose  and  problem  that  had  been  set  him  to  solve? 
In  a  word,"  he  cried,  fixing  his  shining  eyes  upon  the 
face  of  his  perplexed  assistant,  "that  God's  messengers 
in  the  far-off  ages  should  have  given  to  His  creatures 
some  full  statement  of  the  secret  of  the  world,  of  the 
secret  of  the  soul,  of  the  meaning  of  life  and  death — 
the  explanation  of  our  being  here,  and  to  what  great 
end  we  are  destined  in  the  ultimate  fullness  of  things?  " 

Dr.  Laidlaw  sat  speechless.  These  outbursts  of 
mystical  enthusiasm  he  had  witnessed  before.  With  any 
other  man  he  would  not  have  listened  to  a  single  sentence, 


The  Man  who  Found  Out      199 

but  to  Professor  Ebor,  man  of  knowledge  and  profound 
investigator,  he  listened  with  respect,  because  he  re- 
garded this  condition  as  temporary  and  pathological,  and 
in  some  sense  a  reaction  from  the  intense  strain  of  the 
prolonged  mental  concentration  of  many  days. 

He  smiled,  with  something  between  sympathy  and 
resignation  as  he  met  the  other's  rapt  gaze. 

"But  you  have  said,  sir,  at  other  times,  that  you 
consider  the  ultimate  secrets  to  be  screened  from  all 

possible " 

"The  ultimate  secrets,  yes,"  came  the  unperturbed 
reply ;  "  but  that  there  lies  buried  somewhere  an  in- 
destructible record  of  the  secret  meaning  of  life,  originally 
known  to  men  in  the  days  of  their  pristine  innocence, 
I  am  convinced.  And,  by  this  strange  vision  so  often 
vouchsafed  to  me,  I  am  equally  sure  that  one  day  it  shall 
be  given  to  me  to  announce  to  a  weary  world  this  glorious 
and  terrific  message." 

And  he  continued  at  great  length  and  in  glowing 
language  to  describe  the  species  of  vivid  dream  that  had 
come  to  him  at  intervals  since  earliest  childhood,  show- 
ing in  detail  how  he  discovered  these  very  Tablets  of 
the  Gods,  and  proclaimed  their  splendid  contents — whose 
precise  nature  was  always,  however,  withheld  from  him 
in  the  vision — to  a  patient  and  suffering  humanity. 

"  The  Scrutator,  sir,  well  described  '  Pilgrim  '  as  the 
Apostle  of  Hope,"  said  the  young  doctor  gently,  when  he 
had  finished;  "and  now,  if  that  reviewer  could  hear  you 
speak  and  realize  from  what  strange  depths  comes  your 

simple  faith " 

The  professor  held  up  his  hand,  and  the  smile  of  a 
little  child  broke  over  his  face  like  sunshine  in  the 
morning. 

"Half  the  good  my  books  do  would  be  instantly 
destroyed,"  he  said  sadly;  "they  would  say  that  I  wrote 
with  my  tongue  in  my  cheek.  But  wait !  "  he  added 
significantly;  "wait  till  I  find  these  Tablets  of  the  Gods  ! 


200  The  Wolves  of  God 

Wait  till  I  hold  the  solutions  of  the  old  world  -problems 
in  my  hands  !  Wait  till  the  light  of  this  new  revelation 
breaks  upon  confused  humanity,  and  it  wakes  to  "find 
its  bravest  hopes  justified  !  Ah,  then,  my  dear  Laid- 


He  broke  off  suddenly  ;  but  the  doctor,  cleverly  guess- 
ing* the  thought  in  his  mind,  caught  him  up  immediately. 

"Perhaps  this  very  summer,"  he  said,  trying  hard  to 
make  the  suggestion  keep  pace  with  honesty  ;  "  in  your 
explorations  in  Assyria  —  your  digging  in  the  remote 
civilization  of  what  was  once  Chaldea,  you  may  find 
—  what  you  dream  of  -  " 

The  professor  looked  up  with  a  delighted  smile  on 
his  fine  old  face. 

"Perhaps,"   he  murmured  softly,    "perhaps!" 

And  the  young  doctor,  thanking  the  gods  of  science 
that  his  leader's  aberrations  were  of  so  harmless  a  charac- 
ter, went  home  strong  in  the  certitude  of  his  knowledge 
of  externals,  proud  that  he  was  able  to  refer  his  visions 
to  self-suggestion,  and  wondering  complaisantly  whether 
in  his  old  age  he  might  not  after  all  suffer  himself  from 
visitations  of  the  very  kind  that  afflicted  his  respected 
chief. 

And  as  he  got  into  bed  and  thought  again  of  his 
master's  rugged  face,  and  finely  shaped  head,  and  -the 
deep  lines  traced  by  years  of  work  and  self-discipline, 
he  turned  over  on  his  pillow  and  fell  asleep  with  a  sigh 
that  was  half  of  wonder,  half  of  regret. 


It  was  in  February,  nine  months  later,  when  Dr. 
Laidlaw  made  his  way  to  Charing  Cross  to  meet  his: 
chief  after  his  long  absence  of  travel  and  exploration.  The 
vision  about  the  so-called  Tablets  of  the  Gods  had  mean- 
while passed  almost  entirely  from  his  memory. 


The  Man  who  Found  Out      201 

There  were  few  people  in  the  train,  for  the  stream 
of  traffic  was  now  running-  the  other  way,  and  he  had 
no  difficulty  in  finding  the  man  he  had  come  to  meet. 
The  shock  of  white  hair  beneath  the  low-crowned  felt 
hat  was  alone  enough  to  distinguish  him  by  easily. 

"Here  I  am  at  last  !  "  exclaimed  the  professor,  some- 
what wearily,  clasping  his  friend's  hand  as  he  listened 
to  the  young  doctor's  warm  greetingsi  and  questions. 
"  Here  I  am — a  little  older,  and  much  dirtier  than  when 
you  last  saw  me  !  "  He  glanced  down  laughingly  at  his 
travel-stained  garments. 

"And  much  wiser,"  said  Laidlaw,  with  a  smile,  as 
he  bustled  about  the  platform  for  porters  and  gave  hi? 
chief  the  latest  scientific  news. 

At  last  they  came  down  to  practical  considera- 
tions. 

"And  your  luggage — where  is  that?  You  must  have 
tons  of  it,  I  suppose?  "  said  Laidlaw. 

"Hardly  anything,"  Professor  Ebor  answered. 
"Nothing,  in  fact,  but  what  you  see." 

"Nothing  but  this  hand-bag?  "  laughed  the  other, 
thinking  he  was  joking. 

"And  a  small  portmanteau  in  the  van,"  was  the  quiet 
reply.  "I  have  no  other  luggage." 

"You  have  no  other  luggage?"  repeated  Laidlaw, 
turning  sharply  to  see  if  he  were  in  earnest. 

"Why  should  I  need  more?  "  the  professor  added 
simply. 

Something  in  the  man's  face,  or  voice,  or  manner 
— the  doctor  hardly  knew  which — suddenly  struck  him 
as  strange.  There  was  a  change  in  him,  a  change  so 
profound — so  little  on  the  surface,  that  is — that  at  first 
he  had  not  become  aware  of  it.  For  a  moment  it  was 
as  though  an  utterly  alien  personality  stood  before  him 
in  that  noisy,  bustling  throng.  Here,  in  all  the  homely, 
friendly  turmoil  of  a  'Charing  Cross  crowd,  a  curious 
feeling  of  cold  passed  over  his  heart,  touching  his  life 
N 


202  The  Wolves  of  God 

with  icy  finger,  so  that  he  actually  trembled  and  felt 
afraid. 

He  looked  up  quickly  at  his  friend,  his  mind  work- 
ing- with  startled  and  unwelcome  thoughts. 

"Only  this?  "  he  repeated,  indicating  the  bag.  "But 
where 's  all  the  stuff  you  went  away  with?  And — have 
you  brought  nothing  home — no  treasures?  " 

"This  is  all  I  have,"  the  other  said  briefly.  The  pale 
smile  that  went  with  the  words  caused  the  doctor  a 
second  indescribable  sensation  of  uneasiness.  Something 
was  very  wrong,  something  was  very  queer ;  he  wondered 
now  that  he  had  not  noticed  it  sooner. 

"The  rest  follows,  of  course,  by  slow  freight,"  he 
added  tactfully,  and  as  naturally  as  possible.  "But 
come,  sir,  you  must  be  tired  and  in  want  of  food  after 
your  long  journey.  I'll  get  a  taxi  at  once,  and  we  can 
see  about  the  other  luggage  afterwards." 

It  seemed  to  him  he  hardly  knew  quite  what  he  was 
saying;  the  change  in  his  friend  had  come  upon  him 
so  suddenly  and  now  grew  upon  him  more  and  more 
distressingly.  Yet  he  could  not  make  out  exactly  in 
what  it  consisted.  A  terrible  suspicion  began  to  take 
shape  in  his  mind,  troubling  him  dreadfully. 

"  I  am  neither  very  tired,  nor  in  need  of  food,  thank 
you,"  the  professor  said  quietly.  "And  this  is  all  I  have. 
There  is  no  luggage  to  follow.  I  have  brought  home 
nothing — nothing  but  what  you  see." 

His  words  conveyed  finality.  They  got  into  a  taxi, 
tipped  the  porter,  who  had  been  staring  in  amazement 
at  the  venerable  figure  of  the  scientist,  and  were  con- 
veyed slowly  and  noisily  to  the  house  in  the  north  of 
London  where  the  laboratory  was,  the  scene  of  their 
labours  of  years. 

And  the  whole  way  Professor  Ebor  uttered  no  word, 
nor  did  Dr.  Laidlaw  find  the  courage  to  ask  a  single 
question. 

It    was    only    late    that    night,    before    he    took    his 


The  Man  who  Found  Out      203 

departure,  as  the  two  men  were  standing  before  the  fire 
in  the  study — that  study  where  they  had  discussed  so 
many  problems  of  vital  and  absorbing"  interest — that  Dr. 
Laidlaw  at  last  found  strength  to  come  to  the  point 
with  direct  questions.  The  professor  had  been  giving 
him  a  superficial  and  desultory  account  of  his  travels, 
of  his  journeys  by  camel,  of  his  encampments  among 
the  mountains  and  in  the  desert,  and  of  his  explorations 
among  the  buried  temples,  and,  deeper,  into  the  waste 
of  the  pre-historic  sands,  when  suddenly  the  doctor  came 
to  the  desired  point  with  a  kind  of  nervous  rush,  almost 
like  a  frightened  boy. 

"And  you  found "  he  began  stammering,  looking 

hard  at  the  other's  dreadfully  altered  face,  from  which 
every  line  of  hope  and  cheerfulness  seemed  to  have  been 
obliterated  as  a  sponge  wipes  markings  from  a  slate — 
"you  found — — " 

"I  found,"  replied  the  other,  in  a  solemn  voice,  and 
it  was  the  voice  of  the  mystic  rather  than  the  man  of 
science — <rl  found  what  I  went  to  seek.  The  vision 
never  once  failed  me.  It  led  me  straight  to  the  place 
like  a  star  in  the  heavens.  I  found — the  Tablets  of  the 
Gods." 

Dr.  Laidlaw  caught  his  breath,  and  steadied  himself 
on  the  back  of  a  chair.  The  words  fell  like  particles 
of  ice  upon  his  heart.  For  the  first  time  the  professor 
had  uttered  the  well-known  phrase  without  the  glow  of 
light  and  wonder  in  his  face  that  always  accompanied  it. 

"You  have — brought  them?  "  he  faltered. 

"I  have  brought  them  home,"  said  the  other,  in  a 
voice  with  a  ring  like  iron;  "and  I  have — deciphered 
them." 

Profound  despair,  the  gloom  of  outer  darkness,  the 
dead  sound  of  a  hopeless  soul  freezing  in  the  utter  cold 
of  space  seemed  to  fill  in  the  pauses  between  the  brief 
sentences.  A  silence  followed,  during  which  Dr.  Laidlaw 
saw  nothing  but  the  white  face  before  him  alternately 


204  The  Wolves  of  God 

fade  and  return.     And  it  was  like  the  face  of  a  dead 
man. 

"They  are,  alas,  indestructible,"  he  heard  the  voice 
continue,  with  its  even,  metallic  ring. 

"Indestructible,"  Laidlaw  repeated  mechanically, 
hardly  knowing-  what  he  was  saying. 

Again  a  silence  of  several  minutes  passed,  during 
which,  with  a  creeping  cold  about  his  heart,  he  stood 
and  stared  into  the  eyes  of  the  man  he  had  known  and 
loved  so  long — aye,  and  worshipped,  too ;  the  man  who 
had  first  opened  his  own  eyes  when  they  were  blind, 
and  had  led  him  to  the  gates  of  knowledge,  and  no  little 
distance  along  the  difficult  path  beyond ;  the  man  who, 
in  another  direction,  had  passed  on  the  strength  of  his 
faith  into  the  hearts  of  thousands  by  his  books. 

"  I  may  see  them  ?  "  he  asked  at  last,  in  a  low  voice 
he  hardly  recognized  as  his  own.  "You  will  let  me 
know — their  message?" 

Professor  Ebor  kept  his  eyes  fixedly  upon  his  assist- 
ant's face  as  he  answered,  with  a  smile  that  was  more 
like  the  grin  of  death  than  a  living  human  smile. 

"When  I  am  gone,"  he  whispered;  "when  I  have 
passed  away.  Then  you  shall  find  them  and  read  the 
translation  I  have  made.  And  then,  too,  in  your  turn, 
you  must  try,  with  the  latest  resources  of  science  at  your 
disposal  to  aid  you,  to  compass  their  utter  destruction." 
He  paused  a  moment,  and  his  face  grew  pale  as  the  face 
of  a  corpse.  "Until  that  time,"  he  added  presently, 
without  looking  up,  "  I  must  ask  you  not  to  refer  to  the 
subject  again — and  to  keep  my  confidence  meanwhile — 
ab — so — lute — ly" 


A  year  passed  slowly  by,  and  at  the  end  of  it  Dr. 
Laidlaw  Had  found  it  necessary  to  sever  his  working 
connexion  with  his  friend  and  one-time  leader  Pro- 


The  Man  who  Found  Out      205 

fessor  Ebor  was  no  longer  the  same  man.  The  light  had 
gone  out  of  his  life ;  the  laboratory  was  closed ;  he  no 
longer  put  pen  to  paper  or  applied  his  mind  to  a  single 
problem.  In  the  short  space  of  a  few  months  he  had 
passed  from  a  hale  and  hearty  man  of  late  middle  life 
to  the  condition  of  old  age — a  man  collapsed  and  on  the 
edge  of  dissolution.  Death,  it  was  plain,  lay  waiting 
for  him  in  the  shadows  of  any  day — and  he  knew  it. 

To  describe  faithfully  the  nature  of  this  profound 
alteration  in  his  character  and  temperament  is  not  easy, 
but  Dr.  Laidlaw  summed  it  up  to  himself  in  three  words  : 
Loss  of  Hope.  The  splendid  mental  powers  remained 
indeed  undimmed,  but  the  incentive  to  use  them — to  use 
them,  for  the  help  of  others — had  gone.  The  character 
still  held  to  its  fine  and  unselfish  habits  of  years,  but 
the  far  goal  to  which  they  had  been  the  leading  strings 
had  faded  away.  The  desire  for  knowledge — knowledge 
for  its  own  sake — had  died,  and  the  passionate  hope 
which  hitherto  had  animated  with  tireless  energy  the 
heart  and  brain  of  this  splendidly  equipped  intellect  had 
suffered  total  eclipse.  The  central  fires  had  gone  out. 
Nothing  was  worth  doing,  thinking,  working  for.  There 
was  nothing  to  work  for  any  longer  ! 

The  professor's  first  step  was  to  recall  as  many  of 
his  books  as  possible ;  his  second  to  close  his  laboratory 
and  stop  all  research.  He  gave  no  explanation,  he  in- 
vited no  questions.  His  whole  personality  crumbled  away, 
so  to  speak,  till  his  daily  life  became  a  mere  mechanical 
process  of  clothing  the  body,  feeding  the  body,  keep- 
ing it  in  good  health  so  as  to  avoid  physical  discomfort, 
and,  above  all,  doing  nothing  that  could  interfere  with 
sleep.  The  professor  did  everything  he  could  to  lengthen 
the  hours  of  sleep,  and  therefore  of  forgetfulness. 

It  was  all  clear  enough  to  Dr.  Laidlaw.  A  weaker 
man,  he  knew,  would  have  sought  to  lose  himself  in  one 
form  or  another  of  sensual  indulgence — sleeping-draughts, 
drink,  the  first  pleasures  that  came  to  hand.  Self- 


206  The  Wolves  of  God 

destruction  would  have  been  the  method  of  a  little  bolder 
type;  and  deliberate  evil-doing,  poisoning-  with  his  awful 
knowledge  all  he  could,  the  means  of  still  another  kind 
of  man.  Mark  Ebor  was  none  of  these.  He  held  himself 
under  fine  control,  facing  silently  and  without  complaint 
the  terrible  facts  he  honestly  believed  himself  to  have  been 
unfortunate  enough  to  discover.  Even  to  his  intimate 
friend  and  assistant,  Dr.  Laidlaw,  he  vouchsafed  no 
word  of  true  explanation  or  lament.  He  went  straight 
forward  to  the  end,  knowing  well  that  the  end  was  not 
very  far  away. 

And  death  came  very  quietly  one  day  to  him,  as  he 
was  sitting  in  the  arm-chair  of  the  study,  directly  facing 
ithe  doors  of  the  laboratory — the  doors  that  no  longer 
opened.  Dr.  Laidlaw,  by  happy  chance,  was  with  him 
at  the  time,  and  was  just  able  to  reach  his  side  in  re- 
sponse to  the  sudden  painful  efforts  for  breath;  just  in 
time,  too,  to  catch  the  murmured  words  that  fell  from 
the  pallid  lips  like  a  message  from  the  other  side  of  the 
grave. 

"Read  them,  if  you  must;  and,  if  you  can — destroy. 
But  " — his  voice  sank  so  low  that  Dr.  Laidlaw  only  just 
caught  the  dying  syllables — "but — never,  never — give 
them  to  the  world." 

And  like  a  grey  bundle  of  dust  loosely  gathered  up 
in  an  old  garment  the  professor  sank  back  into  his 
chair  and  expired. 

But  this  was  only  the  death  of  the  body.  His  spirit 
had  died  two<  years  before. 


The  estate  of  the  dead  man  was  small  and  uncom- 
plicated, and  Dr.  Laidlaw,  as  sole  executor  and  residuary 
legatee,  had  no  difficulty  in  settling  it  up.  A  month 
after  the  funeral  he  was  sitting  alone  in  his  upstairs 


The  Man  who  Found  Out      207 

library,  the  last  sad  duties  completed,  and  his  mind 
full  of  poignant  memories  and  regrets  for  the  loss  of  a 
friend  he  had  revered  and  loved,  and  to  whom  his  debt 
was  so  incalculably  great.  The  last  two  years,  indeed, 
had  been  for  him  terrible.  To  watch  the  swift  decay  of 
the  greatest  combination  of  heart  and  brain  he  had  ever 
known,  and  to  realize  he  was  powerless  to  help,  was  a 
source  of  profound  grief  to  him  that  would  remain  to 
the  end  of  his  days. 

At  the  same  time  an  insatiable  curiosity  possessed 
him.  The  study  of  dementia  was,  of  course,  outside 
his  special  province  as  a  specialist,  but  he  knew  enough 
of  it  to  understand  how  small  a  matter  might  be  the 
actual  cause  of  how  great  an  illusion,  and  he  had  been 
devoured  from  the  very  beginning  by  a  ceaseless  and 
increasing  anxiety  to  know  what  the  professor  had  found 
in  the  sands  of  "Chaldea,"  what  these  precious  Tablets 
of  the  Gods  might  be,  and  particularly — for  this  was 
the  real  cause  that  had  sapped  the  man's  sanity  and 
hope — what  the  inscription  was  that  he  had  believed  to 
have  deciphered  thereon. 

The  curious  feature  of  it  all  to  his  own  mind  was, 
that  whereas  his  friend  had  dreamed  of  finding  a  message 
of  glorious  hope  and  comfort,  he  had  apparently  found 
(so  far  as  he  had  found  anything  intelligible  at  all,  and 
not  invented  the  whole  thing  in  his  dementia)  that  the 
secret  of  the  world,  and  the  meaning  of  life  and  death, 
was  of  so  terrible  a  nature  that  it  robbed  the  heart  of 
courage  and  the  soul  of  hope.  What,  then,  could  be 
the  contents  of  the  little  brown  parcel  the  professor 
had  bequeathed  to  him  with  his  pregnant  dying  sen- 
tences ? 

Actually  his  hand  was  trembling  as  he  turned  to  the 
writing-table  and  began  slowly  to  unfasten  a  small  old- 
fashioned  desk  on  which  the  small  gilt  initials  "M.E." 
stood  forth  as  a  melancholy  memento.  He  put  the  key 
into  the  lock  and  half  turned  it.  Then,  suddenly,  he 


ao8  The  Wolves  of  God 

stopped  and  looked  about  him.  Was  that  a  sound  at  the 
back  of  the  room?  It  was  just  as  though  someone  had 
/aughed  and  then  tried  to  smother  the  laugh  with  a  cough. 
A.  slight  shiver  ran  over  him  as  he  stood  listening. 

"This  is  absurd,"  he  said  aloud;  "too  absurd  for 
Belief — that  I  should  be  so  nervous!  It's  the  effect  of 
curiosity  unduly  prolonged."  He  smiled  a  little  sadly 
and  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  blue  summer  sky  and  the 
plane  trees  swaying  in  the  wind  below  his  window.  "It's 
tfie  reaction,"  he  continued.  "The  curiosity  of  two  years 
to  be  quenched  in  a  single  moment !  The  nervous  ten- 
sion, of  course,  must  be  considerable." 

He  turned  back  to  the  brown  desk  and  opened  it 
without  further  delay.  His  hand  was  firm  now,  and  he 
took  out  the  paper  parcel  that  lay  inside  without  a  tremor. 
It  was  heavy.  A  moment  later  there  lay  on  the  table 
before  him  a  couple  of  weather-worn  plaques  of  grey 
stone — they  looked  like  stone,  although  they  felt  like 
metal — on  which  he  saw  markings  of  a  curious  character 
that  might  have  been  the  mere  tracings  of  natural  forces 
through  the  ages,  or,  equally  well,  the  half-obliterated 
hieroglyphics  cut  upon  their  surface  in  past  centuries  by 
the  more  or  less  untutored  hand  of  a  common  scribe. 

He  lifted  each  stone  in  turn  and  examined  it  care- 
fully. It  seemed  to  him  that  a  faint  glow  of  heat  passed 
from  the  substance  into  his  skin,  and  he  put  them  down 
again  suddenly,  as  with  a  gesture  of  uneasiness. 

"A  very  clever,  or  a  very  imaginative  man,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "who  could  squeeze  the  secrets  of  life  and 
death  from  such  broken  lines  as  those  !  " 

Then  he  turned  to  a  yellow  envelope  lying  beside  them 
in  the  desk,  with  the  single  word  on  the  outside  in  the 
writing  of  the  professor — the  word  Translation. 

"Now,"  he  thought,  taking  it  up  with  a  sudden 
violence  to  conceal  his  nervousness,  "now  for  the  great 
solution.  Now  to  learn  the  meaning  of  the  worlds,  and 
why  mankind  was  made,  and  why  discipline  is  worth 


The  Man  who  Found  Out      209 

while,   and  sacrifice  and  pain  the  true  law  of  advance- 
ment." 

There  was  the  shadow  of  a  sneer  in  his  voice,  and 
yet  something*  in  him  shivered  at  the  same  time.  He 
held  the  envelope  as  though  weighing  it  in  his  hand,  his 
mind  pondering  many  things.  Then  curiosity  won  the 
day,  and  he  suddenly  tore  it  open  with  the  gesture  of 
an  actor  who  tears  open  a  letter  on  the  stage,  knowing 
there  is  no  real  writing  inside  at  all. 

A  page  of  finely  written  script  in  the  late  scientist's 
handwriting  lay  before  him.  He  read  it  through  from 
beginning  to  end,  missing  no  word,  uttering  each  syllable 
distinctly  under  his  breath  as  he  read. 

The  pallor  of  his  face  grew  ghastly  as  he  neared  the 
end.  He  began  to  shake  all  over  as  with  ague.  His 
breath  came  heavily  in  gasps.  He  still  gripped  the  sheet 
of  paper,  however,  and  deliberately,  as  by  an  intense 
effort  of  will,  read  it  through  a  second  time  from  begin- 
ning to  end.  And  this  time,  as  the  last  syllable  dropped 
from  his  lips,  the  whole  face  of  the  man  flamed  with  a 
sudden  and  terrible  anger.  His  skin  became  deep,  deep 
red,  and  he  clenched  his  teeth.  With  all  the  strength 
of  his  vigorous  soul  he  was  struggling  to  keep  control  of 
himself. 

For  perhaps  five  minutes  he  stood  there  beside  the  table 
without  stirring  a  muscle.  He  might  have  been  carved 
out  of  stone.  His  eyes  were  shut,  and  only  the  heaving 
of  the  chest  betrayed  the  fact  that  he  was  a  living  being. 
Then,  with  a  strange  quietness,  he  lit  a  match  and  applied 
it  to  the  sheet  of  paper  he  held  in  his  hand.  The  ashes 
fell  slowly  about  him,  piece  by  piece,  and  he  blew  them 
from  the  window-sill  into  the  air,  his  eyes  following  them 
as  they  floated  away  on  the  summer  wind  that  breathed 
so  warmly  over  the  world. 

He  turned  back  slowly  into  the  room.  Although  his 
actions  and  movements  were  absolutely  steady  and  con- 
trolled, it  was  clear  that  he  was  on  tbe  edge  of  violent 


210  The  Wolves  of  God 

action.  A  hurricane  might  burst  upon  the  still  room  any 
moment.  His  muscles  were  tense  and  rigid.  Then,  sud- 
denly, he  whitened,  collapsed,  and  sank  backwards  into  a 
chair,  like  a  tumbled  bundle  of  inert  matter.  He  had 
fainted. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  he  recovered  consciousness 
and  sat  up.  As  before,  he  made  no  sound.  Not  a  syl- 
lable passed  his  lips.  He  rose  quietly  and  looked  about 
the  room. 

Then  he  did  a  curious  thing. 

Taking  a  heavy  stick  from  the  rack  in  the  corner  he 
approached  the  mantelpiece,  and  with  a  heavy  shattering 
blow  he  smashed  the  dock  to  pieces.  The  glass  fell  in 
shivering  atoms. 

"Cease  your  lying  voice  for  ever,"  he  said,  in  a  curi- 
ously still,  even  tone.  "There  is  no  such  thing  as 
time !  " 

He  took  the  watch  from  his  pocket,  swung  it  round 
several  times  by  the  long  gold  chain,  smashed  it  into 
smithereens  against  the  wall  with  a  single  blow,  and 
then  walked  into  his  laboratory  next  door,  and  hung  its 
broken  body  on  the  bones  of  the  skeleton  in  the  corner 
of  the  room. 

"Let  one  damned  mockery  hang  upon  another,"  he 
said  smiling  oddly.  "  Delusions,  both  of  you,  and  cruel 
as  false !  " 

He  slowly  moved  back  to  the  front  room.  He  stopped 
opposite  the  bookcase  where  stood  in  a  row  the  "Scrip- 
tures of  the  World,"  choicely  bound  and  exquisitely 
printed,  the  late  professor's  most  treasured  possession, 
and  next  to  them  several  books  signed  "Pilgrim." 

One  by  one  he  took  them  from  the  shelf  and  hurled 
them  through  the  open  window. 

"A  devil's  dreams!  A  devil's  foolish  dreams!"  he 
cried,  with  a  vicious  laugh. 

Presently  he  stopped  from  sheer  exhaustion.  He 
turned  his  eyes  slowly  to  the  wall  opposite,  where  hung 


The  Man  who  Found  Out      211 

a  weird  array  of  Eastern  swords  and  daggers,  scimitars 
and  spears,  the  collections  of  many  journeys.  He  crossed 
the  room  and  ran  his  finger  along  the  edge.  His  mind 
seemed  to  waver. 

"No,"  he  muttered  presently;  "not  that  way.  There 
are  easier  and  better  ways  than  that." 

He  took  fliis  hat  and  passed  downstairs  into  the 
street. 


It  was  five  o'clock,  and  the  June  sun  lay  hot  upon 
the  pavement.  He  felt  the  metal  door-knob  burn  the 
palm  of  his  hand. 

"Ah,  Laidlaw,  this  is  well  met,"  cried  a  voice  at  his 
elbow;  "I  was  in  the  act  of  coming  to  see  you.  I've 
a  case  that  will  interest  you,  and  besides,  I  remembered 
that  you  flavoured  your  tea  with  orange  leaves! — and  I 
admit " 

It  was  Alexis  Stephen,  the  great  hypnotic  doctor. 

"I've  had  no  tea  to-day,"  Laidlaw  said,  in  a  dazed 
manner,  after  staring  for  a  moment  as  though  the  other 
had  struck  him  in  the  face.  A  new  idea  had  entered  his 
mind. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Dr.  Stephen  quickly. 
"  Something's  wrong  with  you.  It's  this  sudden  heat,  or 
overwork.  Come,  man,  let's  go  inside." 

A  sudden  light  broke  upon  the  face  of  the  younger 
man,  the  light  of  a  heaven-sent  inspiration.  He  looked 
into  his  friend's  face,  and  told  a  direct  lie. 

"Odd,"  he  said,  "I  myself  was  just  coming  to  see 
you.  I  have  something  of  great  importance  to  test  your 
confidence  with.  But  in  your  house,  please,"  as  Stephen 
urged  him  towards  his  own  door — "in  your  house.  It's 
only  round  the  corner,  and  I — I  cannot  go  back  there — 
to  my  rooms — till  I  have  told  you." 

"I'm  your  patient — for  the  moment,"  he  added  stam- 


212  The  Wolves  of  God 

meringly  as  soon  as  they  were  seated  in  the  privacy  of  the 
hypnotist's  sanctum,  "and  I  want — er " 

"My  dear  Laidlaw,"  interrupted  the  other,  in  that 
soothing  voice  of  command  which  had  suggested  to  many 
a  suffering  soul  that  the  cure  for  its  pain  lay  in  the  powers 
of  its  own  reawakened  will,  "I  am  always  at  your 
service,  as  you  know.  You  have  only  to  tell  me  what  I 
can.  do  for  you,  and  I  will  do  it."  He  showed  every 
desire  to  help  him  out.  His  manner  was  indescribably 
tactful  and  direct. 

Dr.  Laidlaw  looked  up  into  his  face. 

"I  surrender  my  will  to  you,"  he  said,  already  calmed 
by  the  other's  healing  presence,  "and  I  want  you  to  treat 
me  hypnotically — and  at  once.  I  want  you  to  suggest 
to  me  " — his  voice  became  very  tense — "  that  I  shall  forget 
— forget  till  I  die — everything  that  has  occurred  to  me 
during  the  last  two  hours;  till  I  die,  mind,"  he  added, 
with  solemn  emphasis,  "till  I  die." 

He  floundered  and  stammered  like  a  frightened 
boy.  Alexis  Stephen  looked  at  him  fixedly  without 
speaking. 

"And  further,"  Laidlaw  continued,  "I  want  you  to 
ask  me  no  questions.  I  wish  to  forget  for  ever  something 
I  have  recently  discovered — something  so  terrible  and  yet 
so  obvious  that  I  can  hardly  understand  why  it  is  not 
patent  to  every  mind  in  the  world — for  I  have  had  a 
moment  of  absolute  clear  vision — of  merciless  clairvoy- 
ance. But  I  want  no  one  else  in  the  whole  world  to  know 
what  it  is — least  of  all,  old  friend,  yourself." 

He  talked  in  utter  confusion,  and  hardly  knew  what 
he  was  saying.  But  the  pain  on  his  face  and  the  anguish 
in  his  voice  were  an  instant  passport  to  the  other's 
heart. 

"Nothing  is  easier,"  replied  Dr.  Stephen,  after  a  hesi- 
tation so  slight  that  the  other  probably  did  not  even 
notice  it.  "Come  into  my  other  room  where  we  shall 
not  be  disturbed.  I  can  heal  you.  Your  memory  of  the 


The  Man  who  Found  Out      213 

last  two  hours  shall  be  wiped  out  as  though  it  had  never 
been.     You  can  trust  me  absolutely." 

"I  know  I  can,"  Laidlaw  said  simply,  as  he  followed 
him   in. 


An  hour  later  they  passed  back  into  the  front  room 
again.  The  sun  was  already  behind  the  houses  opposite, 
and  the  shadows  began  to  gather. 

"I  went  off  easily?  "  Laidlaw  asked. 

"  You  were  a  little  obstinate  at  first.  But  though  you 
came  in  like  a  lion,  you  went  out  like  a  lamb.  I  let  you 
sleep  a  bit  afterwards." 

Dr.  Stephen  kept  his  eyes  rather  steadily  upon  his 
friend's  face. 

"What  were  you  doing  by  the  fire  before  you  came 
here?  "  he  asked,  pausing,  in  a  casual  tone,  as  he  lit  a 
cigarette  and  handed  the  case  to  his  patient. 

"I?  •  Let  me  see.  Oh,  I  know;  I  was  worrying  my 
way  through  poor  old  Ebor's  papers  and  things.  I'm  his 
executor,  you  know.  Then  I  got  weary  and  came  out  for 
a  whiff  of  air."  He  spoke  lightly  and  with  perfect  natural- 
ness. Obviously  he  was  telling  the  truth.  "  I  prefer 
specimens  to  papers,"  he  laughed  cheerily. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Dr.  Stephen,  holding  a  lighted 
match  for  the  cigarette.  His  face  wore  an  expression  of 
content.  The  experiment  had  been  a  complete  success. 
The  memory  of  the  last  two  hours  was  wiped  out  utterly. 
Laidlaw  was  already  chatting  gaily  and  easily  about  a 
dozen  other  things  that  interested  him.  Together  they 
went  out  into  the  street,  and  at  his  door  Dr.  Stephen 
left  him  with  a  joke  and  a  wry  face  that  made  his  friend 
laugh  heartily. 

"Don't  dine  on  the  professor's  old  papers  by  mis- 
take," he  cried,  as  he  vanished  down  the  street. 

Dr.  Laidlaw  went  up  to  his  study  at  the  top  of  the 


214  The  Wolves  of  God 

house.  Half  way  down  he  met  his  housekeeper,  Mrs. 
Fewings.  She  was  flustered  and  excited,  and  her  face 
was  very  red  and  perspiring1. 

"There've  been  burglars  here,"  she  cried  excitedly, 
"or  something  funny!  All  your  things  is  just  any'ow, 
sir.  I  found  everything  all  about  everywhere !  "  She 
was  very  confused.  In  this  orderly  and  very  precise 
establishment  it  was  unusual  to  find  a  thing  out  of  place. 

"  Oh,  my  specimens  !  "  cried  the  doctor,  dashing  up 
the  rest  of  the  stairs  at  top  speed.  "  Have  they  been 
touched  or " 

He  flew  to  the  door  of  the  laboratory.  Mrs.  Fewings 
panted  up  heavily  behind  him. 

"The  labatry  ain't  been  touched,"  she  explained, 
breathlessly,  "but  they  smashed  the  libry  clock  and 
they've  'ung  your  gold  watch,  sir,  on  the  skelinton's 
hands.  And  the  books  that  weren't  no  value  they  flung 
out  er  the  window  just  like  so  much  rubbish.  They  must 
have  been  wild  drunk,  Dr.  Laidlaw,  sir !  " 

The  young  scientist  made  a  hurried  examination  of 
the  rooms.  Nothing  of  value  was  missing.  He  began 
to  wonder  what  kind  of  burglars  they  were.  He  looked 
up  sharply  at  Mrs.  Fewings  standing  in  the  doorway. 
For  a  moment  he  seemed  to  cast  about  in  his  mind  for 
something. 

"Odd,"  he  said  at  length.  "I  only  left  here  an  hour 
ago  and  everything  was  all  right  then." 

"Was  it,  sir?  Yes,  sir."  She  glanced  sharply  at 
him.  Her  room  looked  out  upon  the  courtyard,  and  she 
must  have  seen  the  books  come  crashing  down,  and  also 
have  heard  her  master  leave  the  house  a  few  minutes 
later. 

"And  what's  this  rubbish  the  brutes  have  left?  "  he 
cried,  taking  up  two  slabs  of  worn  gray  stone,  on  the 
writing-table.  "Bath  brick,  or  something,  I  do  declare." 

He  looked  very  sharply  again  at  the  confused  and 
troubled  housekeeper. 


The  Man  who  Found  Out      215 

"Throw  them  on  the  dust  heap,  Mrs.  Fewings,  and 
— and  let  me  know  if  anything  is  missing  in  the  house, 
and  I  will  notify  the  police  this  evening." 

When  she  left  the  room  he  went  into  the  laboratory 
and  took  his  watch  off  the  skeleton's  fingers.  His  face 
wore  a  troubled  expression,  but  after  a  moment's  thought 
it  cleared  again.  His  memory  was  a  complete  blank. 

"I  suppose  I  left  it  on  the  writing-table  when  I  went 
out  to  take  the  air,"  he  said.  And  there  was  no  one 
present  to  contradict  him. 

He  crossed  to  the  window  and  blew  carelessly  some 
ashes  of  burned  paper  from  the  sill,  and  stood  watching 
them  as  they  floated  away  lazily  over  the  tops  of  the 
trees. 


XI 
THE    EMPTY   SLEEVE 


THE  Gilmer  brothers  were  a  couple  of  fussy  and  per- 
nickety old  bachelors  of  a  rather  retiring,  not  to  say  timid, 
disposition.  There  was  grey  in  the  pointed  beard  of  John, 
the  elder,  and  if  any  hair  had  remained  to  William  it 
would  also  certainly  have  been  of  the  same  shade.  They 
had  private  means.  Their  main  interest  in  life  was  the 
collection  of  violins,  for  which  they  had  the  instinctive 
flair  of  true  connoisseurs.  Neither  John  nor  William, 
however,  could  play  a  single  note.  They  could  only  pluck 
the  open  strings.  The  production  of  tone,  so  necessary 
before  purchase,  was  done  vicariously  for  them  by 
another. 

The  only  objection  they  had  to  the  big  building  in 
which  they  occupied  the  roomy  top  floor  was  that  Morgan, 
liftman  and  caretaker,  insisted  on  wearing  a  billycock  with 
his  uniform  after  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  with  a  result 
disastrous  to*  the  beauty  of  the  universe.  For  "  Mr. 
Morgan,"  as  they  called  him  between  themselves,  had  a 
round  and  pasty  face  on  the  top  of  a  round  and  conical 
body.  In  view,  however,  of  the  man's  other  rare  quali- 
ties— including  his  devotion  to  themselves — this  objection 
was  not  serious. 

He  had  another  peculiarity  that  amused  them.  On 
being  found  fault  with,  he  explained  nothing,  but  merely 
repeated  the  words  of  the  complaint. 

"Water  in  the  bath  wasn't  really  hot  this  morning, 
Morgan  !  " 

216 


The  Empty  Sleeve  217 

"Water  in  the  bath  not  reely  'ot,  wasn't  it,  sir?" 
Or,  from  William,  who  was  something  of  a  faddist : 
"  My  jar  of  sour  milk  came  up  late  yesterday,  Morgan." 
"Your  jar  sour  milk  come  up  late,  sir,  yesterday?  " 
Since,  however,  the  statement  of  a  complaint  invari- 
ably resulted  in  its  remedy,  the  brothers  had  learned  to 
look  for  no  further  explanation.     Next  morning  the  bath 
was  hot,  the  sour  milk  was  "brortup  "  punctually.     The 
uniform  and  billycock  hat,  though,   remained  an  eyesore 
and  source  of  oppression. 

On  this  particular  night  John  Gilmer,  the  elder,  re- 
turning from  a  Masonic  rehearsal,  stepped  into  the  lift 
and  found  Mr.  Morgan  with  his  hand  ready  on  the  iron 
rope. 

"Fog's  very  thick  outside,"  said  Mr.  John  pleasantly; 
and  the  lift  was  a  third  of  the  way  up  before  Morgan  had 
completed  his  customary  repetition  :  "  Fog  very  thick 
outside,  yes,  sir."  And  Gilmer  then  asked  casually  if 
his  brother  were  alone,  and  received  the  reply  that  Mr. 
Hyman  had  called  and  had  not  yet  gone  away. 

Now  this  Mr.  Hyman  was  a  Hebrew,  and,  like  them- 
selves, a  connoisseur  in  violins,  but,  unlike  themselves, 
who  only  kept  their  specimens  to  look  at,  he  was  a  skilful 
and  exquisite  player.  He  was  the  only  person  they  ever 
permitted  to  handle  their  pedigree  instruments,  to  take 
Yhem  from  the  glass  cases  w7here  they  reposed  in  silent 
splendour,  and  to  draw  the  sound  out  of  their  wondrous 
painted  hearts  of  golden  varnish.  The  brothers  loathed 
to  see  his  fingers  touch  them,  yet  loved  to  hear  their 
singing  voices  in  the  room,  for  the  latter  confirmed  their 
sound  judgment  as  collectors,  and  made  them  certain 
their  money  had  been  well  spent.  Hyman,  however,  made 
no  attempt  to  conceaf  his  contempt  and  hatred  for  the 
mere  collector.  The  atmosphere  of  the  room  fairly  pulsed 
with  these  opposing  forces  of  silent  emotion  when  Hyman 
played  and  the  Gilmers,  alternately  writhing  and  admiring, 
listened.  The  occasions,  however,  were  not  frequent, 
o 


2i8  The  Wolves  of  God 

The  Hebrew  only  came  by  invitation,  and  both  brothers 
made  a  point  of  being-  in.  It  was  a  very  formal  proceed- 
ing— something  of  a  sacred  rite  almost. 

John  Gilmer,  therefore,  was  considerably  surprised  by 
the  information  Morgan  had  supplied.  For  one  thing, 
Hyman,  he  had  understood,  was  away  on  the  Continent. 

"Still  in*  there,  you  say?"  he  repeated,  after  a 
moment's  reflection. 

"Still  in  there,  Mr.  John,  sir."  Then,  concealing  his 
surprise  from  the  liftman,  he  fell  back  upon  his  usual  mild 
habit  of  complaining  about  the  billycock  hat  and  the 
uniform. 

"You  really  should  try  and  remember,  Morgan,"  he 
said,  though  kindly.  "That  hat  does  not  go  well  with 
that  uniform  !  " 

Morgan's  pasty  countenance  betrayed  no  vestige  of 
expression.  "  'At  don't  go  well  with  the  yewniform,  sir," 
he  repeated,  hanging-  up  the  disreputable  bowler  and 
replacing  it  with  a  gold-braided  cap  from  the  peg.  "  No, 
sir,  it  don't,  do  it?  "  he  added  cryptically,  smiling  at  the 
transformation  thus  effected. 

And  the  lift  then  halted  with  an  abrupt  jerk  at  the 
top  floor.  By  somebody's  carelessness  the  landing  was 
in  darkness,  and,  to  make  things  worse,  Morgan,  clumsily 
pulling  the  iron  rope,  happened  to  knock  the  billycock 
from  its  peg  so  that  his  sleeve,  as  he  stooped  to  catch 
it,  struck  the  switch  ana1  plunged  the  scene  in  a  moment's 
complete  obscurity. 

And  it  was  then,  in  the  act  of  stepping1  out  before  the 
light  was  turned  on  again,  that  John  Gilmer  stumbled 
against  something  that  shot  along-  the  landing  past  the 
open  door.  First  he  thought  it  must  be  a  child,  then  a 
man,  then — an  animal.  Its  movement  was  rapid  yet 
stealthy.  Starting  backwards  instinctively  to  allow  it 
room  to  pass,  Gilmer  collided  in  the  darkness  with  Mor- 
gan, and  Morgan  incontinently  screamed.  There  was  a 
moment  of  stupid  confusion.  The  heavy  framework  of 


The  Empty  Sleeve  219 

the  lift  shooH  a  little,  as  though  something-  had  stepped 
into  it  and  then  as  quickly  jumped  out  again.  A  rushing 
sound  followed  that  resembled  footsteps,  yet  at  the  same 
time  was  more  like  gliding — someone  in  soft  slippers  or 
stockinged  feet,  greatly  hurrying.  Then  came  silence 
again.  Morgan  sprang  to  the  landing  and  turned  up  the 
electric  light.  Mr.  Gilmer,  at  the  same  moment,  did  like- 
wise to  the  switch  in  the  lift.  Light  flooded  the  scene. 
Nothing  was  visible. 

"Dog  or  cat,  or  something,  I  suppose,  wasn't  it?" 
exclaimed  Gilmer,  following  the  man  out  and  looking 
round  with  bewildered  amazement  upon  a  deserted  land- 
ing. He  knew  quite  well,  even  while  he  spoke,  that  the 
words  were  foolish. 

"Dog  or  cat,  yes,  sir,  or — something,"  echoed  Mor- 
gan, his  eyes  narrowed  to  pin-points,  then  growing  large, 
but  his  face  stolid. 

"The  light  should  have  been  on."  Mr.  Gilmer  spoke 
with  a  touch  of  severity.  The  little  occurrence  had 
curiously  disturbed  his  equanimity.  He  felt  annoyed, 
upset,  uneasy. 

For  a  perceptible  pause  the  liftman  made  no  reply, 
and  his  employer,  looking  up,  saw  that,  besides  being 
flustered,  he  was  white  about  the  jaws.  His  voice,  when 
he  sp^ke,  was  without  its  normal  assurance.  This  time 
he  did  not  merely  repeat.  He  explained. 

"The  light  ivas  on,  sir,  when  last  /  come  up!"  he 
said,  with  emphasis,  obviously  speaking  the  truth.  "Only 
a  moment  ago,"  he  added. 

Mr.  Gilmer,  for  some  reason,  felt  disinclined  to  press 
for  explanations.  He  decided  to  ignore  the  matter. 

Then  the  lift  plunged  down  again  into  the  depths  like 
a  diving-bell  into  water ;  and  John  Gilmer,  pausing  a 
moment  first  to  reflect,  let  himself  in  softly  with  his  latch- 
key, and,  after  hanging  up  hat  and  coat  in  the  hall, 
entered  the  big  sitting-room  he  and  his  brother  shared  in 
common. 


220  The  Wolves  of  God 

The  December  fog  that  covered  London  like  a  dirty 
blanket  had  penetrated,  he  saw,  into  the  room.  The 
objects  in  it  were  half  shrouded  in  the  familiar  yellowish 
haze. 


In  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  William  Gilmer,  almost 
invisible  in  his  armchair  by  the  gas-stove  across  the  room, 
spoke  at  once.  'Through  the  thick  atmosphere  his  face 
gleamed,  showing  an  extinguished  pipe  hanging  from  his 
lips.  His  tone  of  voice  conveyed  emotion,  an  emotion 
he  sought  to  suppress,  of  a  quality,  however,  not  easy 
to  define. 

"Hyman's  been  here,"  he  announced  abruptly.  "You 
must  have  met  him.  He's  this  very  instant  gone  out." 

It  was  quite  easy  to  see  that  something  had  happened, 
for  "scenes  "  leave  disturbance  behind  them  in  the  atmo- 
sphere. But  John  made  no  immediate  reference  to  this. 
He  replied  that  he  had  seen  no  one — which  was  strictly 
true — and  his  brother  thereupon,  sitting  bolt  upright  in 
the  chair,  turned  quickly  and  faced  him.  His  skin,  in  the 
foggy  air,  seemed  paler  than  before. 

"That's  odd,"  he  said  nervously. 

"What's  odd?  "  asked  John. 

"That  you  didn't  see — anything.  You  ought  to  have 
run  into  one  another  on  the  doorstep."  His  eyes  went 
peering  about  the  room.  He  was  distinctly  ill  at  ease. 
"You're  positive  you  saw  no  one?  Did  Morgan  take 
him  down  before  you  came?  Did  Morgan  see  him?  "  He 
asked  several  questions  at  once. 

"On  the  contrary,  Morgan  told  me  he  was  still  here 
with  you.  Hyman  probably  walked  down,  and  didn't 
take  the  lift  at  all,"  he  replied.  "That  accounts  for 
neither  of  us  seeing  him."  He  decided  to  say  nothing 
about  the  occurrence  in  the  lift,  for  his  brother's  nerves, 
he  saw  plainly,  were  on  edge. 


The  Empty  Sleeve  221 

William  then  stood  up  out  of  his  chair,  and  the  skin 
of  'his  face  changed  its  hue,  for  whereas  a  moment  ago  it 
was  merely  pale,  it  had  now  altered  to  a  tint  that  lay 
somewhere  between  white  and  a  livid  grey.  The  man  was 
fighting  internal  terror.  For  a  moment  these  two  brothers 
of  middle  age  looked  each  other  straight  in  the  eye.  Then 
John  spoke  : 

"What's  wrong,  Billy?  "  he  asked  quietly.  "Some- 
thing's upset  you.  What  brought  Hyman  in  this  way — 
unexpectedly?  I  thought  he  was  still  in  Germany." 

The  brothers,  affectionate  and  sympathetic,  understood 
one  another  perfectly.  They  had  no  secrets.  Yet  for 
several  minutes  the  younger  one  made  no  reply.  It  seemed 
difficult  to  choose  his  words  apparently. 

"Hyman  played,  I  suppose— on  the  fiddles?"  John 
helped  him,  wondering  uneasily  what  was  coming.  He 
did  not  care  much  for  the  individual  in  question,  though 
his  talent  was  of  such  great  use  to  them. 

The  other  nodded  in  the  affirmative,  then  plunged  into 
rapid  speech,  talking  under  his  breath  as  though  he  feared 
someone  might  overhear.  Glancing  over  his  shoulder 
down  the  foggy  room,  he  drew  his  brother  close. 

"Hyman  came,"  he  began,  "unexpectedly.  He  hadn't 
written,  and  I  hadn't  asked  him.  You  hadn't  either,  I 
suppose? " 

John  shook  his  head. 

"When  I  came  in  from  the  dining-room  I  found  him 
in  the  passage.  The  servant  was  taking  away  the  dishes, 
and  he  had  let  himself  in  while  the  front  door  was  ajar. 
Pretty  cool,  wasn't  it?" 

"He's  an  original,"  said  John,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "And  you  welcomed  him?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  asked  him  in,  of  course.  He  explained  he  had 
something  glorious  for  me  to  hear.  Silenski  had  played 
it  in  the  afternoon,  and  he  had  bought  the  music  since. 
But  Silenski 's  *  Strad  '  hadn't  the  power — it's  thin  on  the 
upper  strings,  you  remember,  unequal,  patchy — and  he 


222  The  Wolves  of  God 

said  no  instrument  in  the  world  could  do  it  justice  but  our 
'  Joseph  ' — the  small  Guarnerius,  you  know,  which  he 
swears  is  the  most  perfect  in  the  world." 

"And  what  was  it?  Did  he  play  it?"  asked  John, 
growing-  more  uneasy  as  he  grew  more  interested.  With 
relief  he  glanced  round  and  saw  the  matchless  little  instru- 
ment lying  there  safe  and  sound  in  its  glass  case  near  the 
door. 

"  He  played  it — divinely  :  a  Zigeuner  Lullaby,  a  fine, 
passionate,  rushing  bit  of  inspiration,  oddly  misnamed 
4  lullaby. '  And,  fancy,  the  fellow  had  memorized  it 
already  !  He  walked  about  the  room  on  tiptoe  while  he 
played  it,  complaining-  of  the  light " 

"Complaining  of  the  light?" 

"  Said  the  thing-  was  crepuscular,  and  needed  dusk  for 
its  full  effect.  I  turned  the  lights  out  one  by  one,  till 
finally  there  was  only  the  glow  of  the  gas  logs.  He 
insisted.  You  know  that  way  he  has  with  him?  And 
then  he  got  over  me  in  another  matter  :  insisted  on  using 
some  special  strings  he  had  brought  with  'him,  and  put 
them  on,  too1,  himself — thicker  than  the  A  and  E  we  use*" 

For  though  neither  Gilmer  could  produce  a  note,  it 
was  their  pride  that  they  kept  their  precious  instruments  in 
perfect  condition  for  playing,  choosing  the  exact  thickness 
and  quality  of  strings  that  suited  the  temperament  of  each 
violin;  and  the  little  Guarnerius  in  question  always 
"sang"  best,  they  held,  with  thin  strings. 

"Infernal  insolence,"  exclaimed  the  listening  brother, 
wondering  what  was  coming  next.  "Played  it  well, 
though,  didn't  he,  this  Lullaby  thing?  "  he  added,  seeing 
that  William  hesitated.  As  he  spoke  he  went  nearer, 
sitting  down  close  beside  'him  in  a  leather  chair. 

"Magnificent!  Pure  fire  of  genius  !"  was  the  reply 
with  enthusiasm,  the  voice  at  the  same  time  dropping 
lower.  "Staccato  like  a  silver  hammer;  harmonics  like 
flutes,  clear,  soft,  ringing ;  and  the  tone — well,  the  G 
string  was  a  baritone,  and  the  upper  registers  creamy 


The  Empty  Sleeve  223 

and  mellow  as  a  boy's  voice.  John,"  he  added,  "that 
Guarnerius  is  the  very  pick  of  the  period  and  " — again 
he  hesitated — "  Hyman  loves  it.  He'd  give  his  soul  to 
have  it." 

The  more  John  heard,  the  more  uncomfortable  it  made 
him.  He  had  always  disliked  this  gifted  Hebrew,  for  in' 
his  secret  heart  he  knew  that  he  had  always  feared  and 
distrusted  him.  Sometimes  he  had  felt  half  afraid  of  him ; 
the  man's  very  forcible  personality  was  too  insistent  to  be 
pleasant.  His  type  was  of  the  dark  and  sinister  kind,  and 
he  possessed  a  violent  will  that  rarely  failed  of  accom- 
plishing its  desire. 

"Wish  I'd  heard  the  fellow  play,"  he  said  at  length, 
ignoring  his  brother's  last  remark,  and  going  on  to  speak 
of  the  most  matter-of-fact  details  he  could  think  of.  "  Did 
he  use  the  Dodd  bow>  or  the  Tourte?  That  Dodd  I  picked 
up  last  month,  you  know,  is  the  most  perfectly  balanced  I 
have  ever " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  for  William  had  suddenly  got 
upon  his  feet  and  was  standing  there,  searching  the  room 
with  his  eyes.  A  chill  ran  down  John's  spine  as  he 
watched  him. 

"What  is  it,  Billy?  "  he  asked  sharply.  "Hear  any- 
thing? " 

William  continued  to  peer  about  him  through  the  thick 
air. 

"Oh,  nothing,  probably,"  he  said,  an  odd  catch  in  his 
voice;  "only I  keep  feeling  as  if  there  was  some- 
body listening.  Do  you  think,  perhaps  " — he  glanced 
over  his  shoulder — "there  is  someone  at  the  door?  I  wish 
—I  wish  you'd  have  a  look,  John." 

John  obeyed,  though  without  great  eagerness.  Cross- 
ing the  room  slowly,  he  opened  the  door,  then  switched  on 
the  light.  The  passage  leading  past  the  bathroom 
towards  the  bedrooms  beyond  was  empty.  The  coats 
hung  motionless  from  their  pegs. 

"No  one,  of  course,"  he  said,  as  he  closed  the  door 


224  The  Wolves  of  God 

and  came  back  to  the  stove.  He  left  the  light  burning1  in 
the  passage.  It  was  curious  the  way  both  brothers  had 
this  impression  that  they  were  not  alone,  though  only 
one  of  them  spoke  of  it. 

"  Used  the  Dodd  or  the  Tourte,  Billy— which?  "  con- 
tinued John  in  the  most  natural  voice  he  could  assume. 

But  at  that  very  same  instant  the  water  started  to 
his  eyes.  His  brother,  he  saw,  was  close  upon  the  thing 
he  really  had  to  tell.  But  he  had  stuck  fast. 


By  a  great  effort  John  Gilmer  composed  himself  and 
remained  in  his  chair.  With  detailed  elaboration  he  lit  a 
cigarette,  staring  hard  at  his  brother  over  the  flaring 
match  while  he  did  so.  There  he  sat  in  his  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers  by  the  fireplace,  eyes  downcast,  fingers 
playing  idly  with  the  red  tassel.  The  electric  light  cast 
heavy  shadows  across  the  face.  In  a  flash  then,  since 
emotion  may  sometimes  express  itself  in  attitude  even 
better  than  in  speech,  the  elder  brother  understood  that 
Billy  was  about  to  tell  him  an  unutterable  thing. 

By  instinct  he  moved  over  to  his  side  so  that  the  same 
view  of  the  room  confronted  him. 

"Out  with  it,  old  man,"  he  said,  with  an  effort  to  be 
natural.  "Tell  me  what  you  saw." 

Billy  shuffled  slowly  round  and  the  two  sat  side  by 
side,  facing  the  fog-draped  chamber. 

"It  was  like  this,"  he  began  softly,  "only  I  was 
standing  instead  of  sitting,  looking  over  to  that  door  as 
you  and  I  do  now.  Hyman  moved  to  and  fro  in  the 
faint  glow  of  the  gas  logs  against  the  far  wall,  playing 
that  '  crepuscular  '  thing  in  his  most  inspired  sort  of  way, 
so  that  the  music  seemed  to  issue  from  himself  rather 
than  from  the  shining  bit  of  wood  under  his  chin,  when — 
I  noticed  something  coming  over  me  that  was  " — he  hesi- 


The  Empty  Sleeve  225 

tated,  searching-  for  words — "that  wasn't  all  due  to  the 
music,"  he  finished  abruptly. 

"  His  personality  put  a  bit  of  hypnotism  on  you,  eh?  " 

William  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"The  air  was  thickish  with  fog  and  the  light  was 
dim,  cast  upwards  upon  him  from  the  stove,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  I  admit  all  that.  But  there  wasn't  light  enough 
to  throw  shadows,  you  see,  and " 

"  Hyman  looked  queer?  "  the  other  helped  him  quickly. 

Billy  nodded  his  head  without  turning. 

"Changed  there  before  my  very  eyes" — he  whispered 
it— "turned  animal " 

"Animal?  "     John  felt  his  hair  rising. 

"That's  the  only  way  I  can  put  it.  His  face  and 
hands  and  body  turned  otherwise  than  usual.  I  lost  the 
sound  of  his  feet.  When  the  bow-hand  or  the  fingers 
on  the  strings  passed  into  the  light,  they  were  " — he 
uttered  a  soft,  shuddering  little  laugh — "furry,  oddly 
divided,  ,the  fingers  massed  together.  And  he  paced 
stealthily.  I  thought  every  instant  the  fiddle  would  drop 
with  a  crash  and  he  would  spring  at  me  across  the  room." 

"My  dear  chap — 

"He  moved  with  those  big,  lithe,  striding  steps  one 
sees  " — John  held  his  breath  in  the  little  pause,  listening 
keenly — "one  sees  those  big  brutes  make  in  the  cages 
when  their  desire  is  aflame  for  food  or  escape,  or — or 
fierce,  passionate  desire  for  anything  they  want  with  their 
whole  nature " 

"The  big  felines!  "  John  whistled  softly. 

"And  every  minute  getting  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
door,  as  though  he  meant  to  make  a  sudden  rush  for  it 
and  get  out." 

"  With  the  violin  !     Of  course  you  stopped  him  ?  " 

"  In  the  end.  But  for  a  long  time,  I  swear  to  you, 
I  found  it  difficult  to  know  what  to  do,  even  to  move. 
I  couldn't  get  my  voice  for  words  of  any  kind;  it  was  like 
a  spell." 


226   v       The  Wolves  of  God 

"It  was  a  spell,"   suggested  John  firmly. 

"Then,  as  he  moved,  still  playing,"  continued  the 
other,  "he  seemed  to  grow  smaller;  to  shrink  down  below 
the  line  of  the  gas.  I  thought  I  should  lose  sight  of  him 
altogether.  I  turned  the  light  up  suddenly.  There  he 
was  over  by  the  door — crouching." 

"Playing  on  his  knees,  you  mean?  " 

William  closed  his  eyes  in  an  effort  to  visualize  it 
again. 

"Crouching,"  he  repeated,  at  length,  "close  to  the 
floor.  At  least,  I  think  so.  It  all  happened  so  quickly, 
and  I  felt  so  bewildered,  it  was  hard  to  see  straight. 
But  at  first  I  could  have  sworn  he  was  half  his  natural 
size.  I  called  to  him,  I  think  I  swore  at  him — I  forget 
exactly,  but  I  know  he  straightened  up  at  once  and  stood 
before  me  down  there  in  the  light  " — he  pointed  across 
the  room  to  the  door — "eyes  gleaming,  face  white  as 
chalk,  perspiring  like  midsummer,  and  gradually  filling 
out,  straightening  up,  whatever  you  like  to  call  it,  to  his 
natural  size  and  appearance  again.  It  was  the  most 
horrid  thing  I've  ever  seen." 

"As  an — animal,  you  saw  him  still?" 

"No;  human  again.     Only  much  smaller." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

Billy  reflected  a  moment. 

"Nothing  that  I  can  remember,"  he  replied.  "You 
see,  it  was  all  over  in  a  few  seconds.  In  the  full  light,  I 
felt  so  foolish,  and  nonplussed  at  first.  To  see  him 
normal  again  baffled  me.  And,  before  I  could  collect 
myself,  he  had  let  himself  out  into  the  passage,  and  I 
heard  the  front  door  slam.  A  minute  later — the  same 
second  almost,  it  seemed — you  came  in.  I  only  remember 
grabbing  the  violin  and  getting  it  back  safely  under  the 
glass  case.  The  strings  were  still  vibrating." 

The  account  was  over.  John  asked  no  further  ques- 
tions. Nor  did  he  say  a  single  word  about  the  lift, 
Morgan,  or  the  extinguished  light  on  the  landing.  There 


The  Empty  Sleeve  227 

fell  a  longish  silence  between  the  two  men ;  and  then, 
while  they  helped  themselves  to  a  generous  supply  of 
whisky-and-soda  before  going  to  bed,  John  looked  up 
and  spoke : 

"If  you  agree,  Billy,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  think  I 
might  write  and  suggest  to  Hyman  that  we  shall  no 
longer  have  need  for  his  services." 

And  Billy,  acquiescing,  added  a  sentence  that  ex- 
pressed something  of  the  singular  dread  lying  but  half 
concealed  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  room,  if  not  in  their 
minds  as  well : 

"Putting  it,  however,  in  a  way  that  need  not  offend 
him." 

"Of  course.     There's  no  need  to  be  rude,  is  there?  " 

Accordingly,  next  morning  the  letter  was  written; 
and  John,  saying  nothing  to  his  brother,  took  it  round 
himself  by  hand  to  the  Hebrew's  rooms  near  Euston. 
The  answer  he  dreaded  was  forthcoming  : 

"Mr.  Hyman's  still  away  abroad,"  he  was  told.  "But 
we're  forwarding  letters;  yes.  Or  ;I  can  give  you  'is 
address  if  you'll  prefer  it."  The  letter  wen t,  therefore, 
to  the  number  in  Konigstrasse,  Munich,  thus  obtained. 

Then,  on  his  way  back  from  the  insurance  company 
where  he  went  to  increase  the  sum  that  protected  the 
small  Guarnerius  from  loss  by  fire,  accident,  or  theft, 
John  Gilmer  called  at  the  offices  of  certain  musical  agents 
and  ascertained  that  Silenski,  the  violinist,  was  perform- 
ing at  the  time  in  Munich.  It  was  only  some  days  later, 
though,  by  diligent  inquiry,  he  made  certain  that  at  a 
concert  on  a  certain  date  the  famous  virtuoso  had  played 
a  Zigeuner  Lullaby  of  his  own  composition — the  very 
date,  it  turned  out,  on  which  he  himself  had  been  to  the 
Masonic  rehearsal  at  Mark  Masons'  Hall. 

John,  however,  said  nothing  of  these  discoveries  to 
his  brother  William. 


228  The  Wolves  of  God 


It  was  about  a  week  later  when  a  reply  to  the  letter 
came  from  Munich — a  letter  couched  in  somewhat  offensive 
terms,  though  it  contained  neither  words  nor  phrases  that 
could  actually  be  found  fault  with.  Isidore  Hyman  was 
hurt  and  angry.  On  his  return  to  London  a  month  or  so 
later,  he  proposed  to  call  and  talk  the  matter  over.  The 
offensive  part  of  the  letter  lay,  perhaps,  in  his  definite 
assumption  that  he  could  persuade  the  brothers  to  resume 
the  old  relations.  John,  however,  wrote  a  brief  reply 
to  the  effect  that  they  had  decided  to  buy  no  new  fiddles ; 
their  collection  being  complete,  there  would  be  no  occa- 
sion for  them  to  invite  his  services  as  a  performer. 
This  was  final.  No  answer  came,  and  the  matter  seemed 
to  drop.  Never  for  one  moment,  though,  did  it  leave  the 
consciousness  of  John  Gilmer.  Hyman  had  said  that  he 
would  come,  and  come  assuredly  he  would.  He  secretly 
gave  Morgan  instructions  that  he  and  his  brother  for  the 
future  were  always  "out  "  when  the  Hebrew  presented 
himself. 

"  He  must  have  gone  back  to  Germany,  you  see, 
almost  at  once  after  his  visit  here  that  night,"  observed 
William — John,  however,  making"  no  reply. 

One  night  towards  the  middle  of  January  the  two 
brothers  came  home  together  from  a  concert  in  Queen's 
Hall,  and  sat  up  later  than  usual  in  their  sitting-room 
discussing  over  their  whisky  and  tobacco  the  merits  of 
the  pieces  and  performers.  It  must  have  been  past  one 
o'clock  when  they  turned  out  the  lights  in  the  passage 
and  retired  to  bed.  The  air  was  still  and  frosty ;  moon- 
light over  the  roofs — one  of  those  sharp  and  dry  winter 
nights  that  now  seem  to  visit  London  rarely. 

"Like  the  old-fashioned  days  when  we  were  boys," 
remarked  William,  pausing  a  moment  by  the  passage 


The  Empty  Sleeve  229 

window  and  looking"  cut  across  the  miles  of  silvery, 
sparkling  roofs. 

"Yes,"  added  John;  "the  ponds  freezing  hard  in  the 
fields,  rime  on  the  nursery  windows,  and  the  sound  of  a 
horse's  hoofs  coming  down  the  road  in  the  distance,  eh?  " 
They  smiled  at  the  memory,  then  said  good  night,  and 
separated.  Their  rooms  were  at  opposite  ends  of  the 
corridor;  in  between  were  the  bathroom,  dining-room, 
and  sitting-room.  It  was  a  long,  straggling  flat.  Half 
an  hour  later  both  brothers  were  sound  asleep,  the  flat 
silent,  only  a  dull  murmur  rising  from  the  great  city 
outside,  and  the  moon  sinking  slowjy  to  the  level  of  the 
chimneys. 

Perhaps  two  hours  passed,  .perhaps  three,  when  John 
Gilmer,  sitting  up  in  bed  with  a  start,  wide-awake  and 
frightened,  knew  that  someone  was  moving1  about  in  one 
of  the  three  rooms  that  lay  between  him  and  his  brother. 
He  had  absolutely  no  idea  why  he  should  have  been 
frightened,  for  there  was  no  dream  or  nightmare-memory 
that  he  brought  over  from  unconsciousness,  and  yet  he 
realized  plainly  that  the  fear  he  felt  was  by  no  means  a 
foolish  and  unreasoning  fear.  It  had  a  cause  and  a 
reason.  Also — which  made  it  worse — it  was  fully  war- 
ranted. Something  in  his  sleep,  forgotten  in  the  instant 
of  waking,  had  happened  that  set  every  nerve  in  his  body 
on  the  watch.  He  was  positive  only  of  two  things- 
first,  that  it  was  the  entrance  of  this  person,  moving1  so 
quietly  there  in  the  flat,  that  sent  the  chills  down  his  spine ; 
and,  secondly;  that  this  person  was  not  his  brother 
William. 

John  Gilmer  was  a  timid  man.  The  sight  of  a  burglar, 
his  eyes  black-masked,  suddenly  confronting-  him  in  the 
passage,  would  most  likely  have  deprived  him  of  all  power 
of  decision — until  the  burglar  had  either  shot  him  or 
escaped.  But  on  this  occasion  some  instinct  told  him 
that  it  was  no  burglar,  and  that  the  acute  distress  he 
experienced  was  not  due  to  any  message  of  ordinary 


230  The  Wolves  of  God 

physical  fear.  The  thing  that  had  gained  access  to  his 
flat  while  he  slept  had  first  come — he  felt  sure  of  it-r-into 
his  room,  and  had  passed  very  close  to  his  own  bed, 
before  going  on.  It  had  then  doubtless  gone  to  his 
brother's  room,  visiting  them  both  stealthily  to  make  sure 
they  slept.  And  its  mere  passage  through  his  room  had 
been  enough  to  wake  him  and  set  these  drops  of  cold 
perspiration  upon  his  skin.  For  it  was — he  felt  it  in  every 
fibre  of  his  body — something  hostile. 

The  thought  that  it  might  at  that  very  moment  be  in 
the  room  of  his  brother,  however,  brought  him  to  his  feet 
on  the  cold  floor,  and  set  him  moving  with  all  the  deter- 
mination he  could  summon  towards  the  door.  He  looked 
cautiously  down  an  utterly  dark  passage ;  then  crept  on 
tiptoe  along  it.  On  the  wall  were  old-fashioned  weapons 
that  had  belonged  to  his  father ;  and  feeling  a  curved, 
sheathless  sword  that  had  come  from  some  Turkish  cam- 
paign of  years  gone  by,  his  fingers  closed  tightly  round 
it,  and  lifted  it  silently  from  the  three  hooks  whereon 
it  lay.  He  passed  the  doors  of  the  bathroom  and  clining- 
room,  making  instinctively  for  the  big  sitting-room  where 
the  violins  were  kept  in  their  glass  cases.  The  cold  nipped 
him.  His  eyes  smarted  with  the  effort  to  see  in  the 
darkness.  Outside  the  closed  door  he  hesitated. 

Putting  his  ear  to  the  crack,  he  listened.  From 
within  came  a  faint  sound  of  someone  moving.  The  same 
instant  there  rose  the  sharp,  delicate  "ping"  of  a  violin- 
string  being  plucked ;  and  John  Gilmer,  with  nerves  that 
shook  like  the  vibrations  of  that  very  string,  opened  the 
door  wide  with  a  fling  and  turned  on  the  light  at  the 
same  moment.  .  The  plucked  string  still  echoed  faintly 
in  the  air. 

The  sensation  that  met  him  on  the  threshold  was  the 
well-known  one  that  things  had  been  going  on  in  the 
room  which  his  unexpected  arrival  had  that  instant  put 
a  stop  to.  A  second  earlier  and  he  would  have  discovered 
it  all  in  the  act.  The  atmosphere  still  held  the  feeling 


The  Empty  Sleeve  231 

of  rushing,  silent  movement  with  which  the  things  had 
raced  back  to  their  normal,  motionless  positions.  The 
immobility  of  the  furniture  was  a  mere  attitude  hurriedly 
assumed,  and  the  moment  his  back  was  turned  the  whole 
business,  whatever  it  might  be,  would  -begin  again.  With 
this  presentment  of  the  room,  however — a  purely  imagina- 
tive one — came  another,  swiftly  on  its  heels. 

For  one  of  the  objects,  less  swift  than  the  rest,  had  not 
quite  regained  its  "attitude"  of  repose.  It  still  moved. 
Below  the  window  curtains  on  the  right,  not  far  from 
the  shelf  that  bore  the  violins  in  their  glass  cases,  he  made 
it  out,  slowly  gliding  along  the  floor.  Then,  even  as  his 
eye  caught  it,  it  came  to  rest. 

And,  while  the  cold  perspiration  broke  out  all  over 
him  afresh,  he  knew  that  this  still  moving  item  was  the 
cause  both  of  his  waking  and  of  his  terror.  This  was 
the  disturbance  whose  presence  he  had  divined  in  the 
flat  without  actual  hearing,  and  whose  passage  through 
his  room,  while  he  yet  slept,  had  touched  every  nerve 
in  his  body  as  with  ice.  Clutching  his  Turkish  sword 
tightly,  he  drew  back  with  the  utmost  caution  against 
the  wall  and  watched,  for  the  singular  impression  came 
to  him  that  the  movement  was  not  that  of  a  human  being 
crouching,  but  rather  of  something  that  pertained  to  the 
animal  world.  He  remembered,  flash-like,  the  move- 
ments of  reptiles,  the  stealth  of  the  larger  felines,  the 
undulating  glide  of  great  -snakes.  For  the  moment, 
however,  it  did  not  move,  and  they  faced  one  another. 

The  other  side  of  the  room  was  but  dimly  lighted, 
and  the  noise  he  made  clicking  up  another  electric  lamp 
brought  the  thing  flying  forward  again — towards  himself. 
At  such  a  moment  it  seemed  absurd  to  think  of  so  small 
a  detail,  but  he  remembered  his  bare  feet,  and,  genuinely 
frightened,  he  leaped  upon  a  chair  and  swished  with  his 
sword  through  the  air  about  him.  From  this  better  point 
of  view,  with  the  increased  light  to  aid  him,  he  then  saw 
two  things — first,  that  the  glass  case  usually  covering 


232  The  Wolves  of  God 

the  Guarnerius  violin  had  been  shifted ;  and,  secondly, 
that  the  moving  object  was  slowly  elongating  itself  into 
an  upright  position.  Semi-erect,  yet  most  oddly,  too, 
like  a  creature  on  its  hind  legs,  it  was  coming  swiftly 
towards  him.  It  was  making  for  the  door — and  escape. 

The  confusion  of  ghostly  fear  was  somehow  upon  him 
so  that  he  was  too  bewildered  to  see  clearly,  but  he  had 
sufficient  self-control,  it  seemed,  to  recover  a  certain 
power  of  action ;  for  the  moment  the  advancing  figure  was 
near  enough  for  him  to  strike,  that  curved  scimitar  flashed 
and  whirred  about  him,  with  such  misdirected  violence, 
however,  that  he  not  only  failed  to  strike  it  even  once, 
but  at  the  same  time  lost  his  balance  and  fell  forward 
from  the  chair  whereon  he  perched — straight  into  it. 

And  then  came  the  most  curious  thing  of  all,  for  as 
he  dropped,  the  figure  also  dropped,  stooped  low  down, 
crouched,  dwindled  amazingly  in  size,  and  rushed  past 
him  close  to  the  ground  like  an  animal  on  all  fours. 
John  Gilmer  screamed,  for  he  could  no  longer  contain 
himself.  Stumbling  over  the  chair  as  he  turned  to  follow, 
cutting  and  slashing  wildly  with  his  sword,  he  saw  half- 
way down  the  darkened  corridor  beyond  the  scuttling 
outline  of,  apparently,  an  enormous — cat ! 

The  door  into  the  outer  landing  was  somehow  ajar, 
and  the  next  second  the  beast  was  out,  but  not  before 
the  steel  had  fallen  with  a  crashing  blow  upon  the  front 
disappearing  leg,  almost  severing  it  from  the  body. 

It  was  dreadful.  Turning  up  the  lights  as  he  went,  he 
ran  after  it  to  the  outer  landing.  But  the  thing  he  fol- 
lowed was  already  well  away,  and  he  heard,  on  the  floor 
below  him,  the  same  oddly  gliding,  slithering,  stealthy 
sound,  yet  hurrying,  that  he  had  heard  weeks  before  when 
something  had  passed  him  in  the  lift,  and  Morgan,  in  his 
terror,  had  likewise  cried  aloud. 

For  a  time  he  stood  there  on  that  dark  landing,  listen- 
ing, thinking,  trembling  ;  then  turned  into  the  flat  and 
shut  the  door.  In  the  sitting-room  he  carefully  replaced 


The  Empty  Sleeve  233 

the  glass  case  over  the  treasured  violin,  puzzled  to  the 
point  of  foolishness,  and  strangely  routed  in  his  mind. 
For  the  violin  itself,  he  saw,  had  been  dragged  several 
inches  from  its  cushioned  bed  of  plush. 

Next  morning,  however,  he  made  no  allusion  to  the 
occurrence  of  the  night.  His  brother  apparently  had  not 
been  disturbed. 


The  only  thing  that  called  for  explanation — an  ex- 
planation not  fully  forthcoming — was  the  curious  aspect 
of  Mr.  Morgan's  countenance.  The  fact  that  this  in- 
dividual gave  notice  to  the  owners  of  the  building,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  month  left  for  a  new  post,  was,  of  course, 
known  to  both  brothers ;  whereas  the  story  he  told  in  ex- 
planation of  his  face  was  known  only  to  the  one  who 
questioned  him  about  it — John.  And  John,  for  reasons 
best  known  to  himself,  did  not  pass  it  on  to  the  other. 
Also,  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself,  he  did  not  cross- 
question  the  liftman  about  those  singular  marks,  or  report 
the  matter  to  the  police. 

Mr.  Morgan's  pasty  visage  was  badly  scratched,  and 
there  were  red  lines  running  from  the  cheek  into  the  neck 
that  had  the  appearance  of  having  been  produced  by  sharp 
points  viciously  applied — claws.  He  had  been  disturbed 
by  a  noise  in  the  hall,  he  said,  about  three  in  the  morning. 
A  scuffle  had  ensued  in  the  darkness,  but  the  intruder  had 
got  clear  away.  .  .  . 

"A  cat,  or  something  of  the  kind,  no  doubt,"  sug- 
gested John  Gilmer  at  the  end  of  the  brief  recital.  And 
Morgan  replied  in  his  usual  way  :  "  A  cat,  or  something 
of  the  kind,  Mr.'John,  no  doubt." 

All  the  same,  he  had  not  cared  to  risk  ,a  second 
encounter,  but  had  departed  to  wear  his  billycock  and 
uniform  in  a  building  less  haunted. 

Hyman,  meanwhile,  made  no  attempt  to  call  and  talk 


234  The  Wolves  of  God 

over  his  dismissal.  The  reason  for  this  was  only  apparent, 
however,  several  months  later  when,  quite  by  chance, 
coming  along-  Piccadilly  in  an  omnibus,  the  brothers  found 
themselves  seated  opposite  to  a  man  with  a  thick  black 
beard  and  blue  glasses.  William  Gilmer  hastily  rang  the 
bell  and  got  out,  saying  something  half  intelligible  about 
feeling  faint.  John  followed  him. 

"Did  you  see  who  it  was?  "  he  whispered  to  his 
brother  the  moment  they  were  safely  on  the  pavement. 

John  nodded. 

"Hyman,  in  spectacles.     He's  grown  a  beard,  too." 

"Yes,  but  didn't  you  also  notice " 

"What?" 

"He  had  an  empty  sleeve." 

"An  empty  sleeve?  " 

"Yes,"  said  William  ;  "he's  lost  an  arm." 

There  was  a  long  pause  before  John  spoke.  At  the 
door  of  their  club  the  elder  brother  added  : 

"  Poor  devil  !  He'll  never  again  play  on  " — then,  sud- 
denly changing  the  preposition — "with  a  pedigree 
violin  !  " 

And  that  night  in  the  flat,  after  William  had  gone  to 
bed,  he  looked  up  a  curious  old  volume  he  had  once  picked 
up  on  a  second-hand  bookstall,  and  read  therein  quaint 
descriptions  of  how  the  "desire-body  of  a  violent  man  " 
may  assume  animal  shape,  operate  on  concrete  matter 
even  at  a  distance;  and,  further,  how  a  wound  inflicted 
thereon  can  reproduce  itself  upon  its  physical  counterpart 
by  means  of  the  mysterious  so-called  phenomenon  of 
"  re-percussion. " 


XII 

WIRELESS  CONFUSION 

"GOOD  night,  Uncle,"  whispered  the  child,  as  she 
climbed  on  to  his  knee  and  gave  him  a  resounding 
kiss.  "It's  time  for  me  to  disappop  into  bed — at  least, 
so  mother  says." 

"Disappop,  then,"  he  replied,  returning  her  kiss, 
"although  I  doubt.  ..." 

He  hesitated.  He  remembered  the  word  was  her 
father's  invention,  descriptive  of  the  way  rabbits  pop 
into  their  holes  and  disappear,  and  the  way  good 
children  should  leave  the  room  the  instant  bed-time  was 
announced.  The  father — his  twin  brother — seemed  to 
enter  the  room  and  stand  beside  them.  "Then  give  me 
another  kiss,  and  disappop  !  "  he  said  quickly.  The  child 
obeyed  the  first  part  of  his  injunction,  but  had  not 
obeyed  the  second  when  the  queer  thing  happened.  She 
had  not  left  his  knee ;  he  was  still  holding  her  at  the  full 
stretch  of  both  arms ;  he  was  staring  into  her  laughing 
eyes,  when  she  suddenly  went  far  away  into  an  extra- 
ordinary distance.  She  retired.  Minute,  tiny,  but  still 
in  perfect  proportion  and  clear  as  before,  she  was  with- 
drawn in  space  till  she  was  small  as  a  doll.  He  saw  his 
own  hands  holding  her,  and  they  too  were  minute.  Down 
this  long  corridor  of  space,  as  it  were,  he  saw  her 
diminutive  figure. 

"  Uncle  !  "  she  cried,  yet  her  voice  was  loud  as  before, 
"but  what  a  funny  face !  You're  pretending  you've  seen 
a  ghost " — and  she  was  gone  from  his  knee  and  from  the 
room,  the  door  closing  quietly  behind  her.  He  saw  her 

235 


236  The  Wolves  of  God 

cross  the  floor,  a  tiny  figure.  Then,  just  as  she  reached 
the  door,  she  became  of  normal  size  again,  as  if  she 
crossed  a  line. 

He  felt  dizzy.  The  loud  voice  close  to  his  ear  issuing 
from  a  diminutive  figure  half  a  mile  away  had  a  dis- 
tressing effect  upon  him.  He  knew  a  curious  qualm  as 
he  sat  there  in  the  dark.  He  heard  the  wind  walking 
round  the  house,  trying  the  doors  and  windows.  He  was 
troubled  by  a  memory  he  could  not  seize. 

Yet  the  emotion  instantly  resolved  itself  into  one  of 
personal  anxiety  :  something  had  gone  wrong  with  his 
eyes.  Sight,  his  most  precious  possession  as  an  artist, 
was  of  course  affected.  He  was  conscious  of  a  little 
trembling  in  him,  as  he  at  once  began  trying  his  sight 
at  various  objects — his  hands,  the  high  ceiling,  the  trees 
dim  in  the  twilight  on  the  lawn  outside.  He  opened  a 
book  and  read  half  a  dozen  lines,  at  changing  distances ; 
finally  he  stared  carefully  at  the  second  hand  of  his 
watch.  "  Right  as  a  trivet  !  "  he  exclaimed  aloud.  He 
emitted  a  long  sigh;  he  was  immensely  relieved. 
"  Nothing  wrong  with  my  eyes." 

He  thought  about  the  actual  occurrence  a  great  deal 
— he  felt  as  puzzled  as  any  other  normal  person  must  have 
felt.  While  he  held  the  child  actually  in  his  arms,  grip- 
ping her  with  both  hands,  he  had  seen  her  suddenly  half 
a  mile  away.  "  Half  a  mile !  "  he  repeated  under  his 
breath,  "why  it  was  even  more,  it  was  easily  a  mile." 
It  had  been  exactly  as  though  he  suddenly  looked  at  her 
down  the  wrong  end  of  a  powerful  telescope.  It  had 
really  happened;  he  could  not  explain  it;  there  was  no 
more  to  be  said. 

This  was  the  first  time  it  happened  to  him. 
At  the  theatre,  a  week  later,  when  the  phenomenon 
was  repeated,  the  stage  he  was  watching  fixedly  at  the 
moment  went  far  away,  as  though  he  saw  it  from  a 
long  way  off.  The  distance,  so  far  as  he  could  judge, 
was  the  same  as  before,  about  a  mile.  It  was  an  Eastern 


Wireless  Confusion  237 

scene,  realistically  costumed  and  produced,  that  without 
an  instant's  warning  withdrew.  The  entire  stage  went 
with  it,  although  he  did  not  actually  see  it  go.  He  did 
not  see  movement,  that  is.  It  was  suddenly  remote, 
while  yet  the  actors'  voices,  the  orchestra,  the  general 
hubbub  retained  their  normal  volume.  He  experienced 
again  the  distressing  dizziness ;  he  closed  his  eyes,  cover- 
ing them  with  his  hand,  then  rubbing  the  eyeballs 
slightly ;  and  when  he  looked  up  the  next  minute,  the 
world  was  as  it  should  be,  as  it  had  been,  at  any  rate. 
Unwilling  to  experience  a  repetition  of  the  thing  in  a 
public  place,  however,  and  fortunately  being  alone,  he 
left  the  theatre  at  the  end  of  the  act. 

Twice  this  happened  to  him,  once  with  an  individual, 
his  brother's  child,  and  once  with  a  landscape,  an  Eastern 
stage  scene.  Both  occurrences  were  within  the  week, 
during  which  time  he  had  been  considering  a  visit  to  the 
oculist,  though  without  putting  his  decision  into  execution. 
He  was  the  kind  of  man  that  dreaded  doctors,  dentists, 
oculists,  always  postponing,  always  finding  reasons  for 
delay.  He  found  reasons  now,  the  chief  among  them 
being  an  unwelcome  one — that  it  was  perhaps  a  brain 
specialist,  rather  than  an  oculist,  he  ought  to  consult. 
This  particular  notion  hung  unpleasantly  about  his  mind 
when,  the  day  after  the  theatre  visit,  the  thing  recurred, 
but  with  a  startling  difference. 

While  idly  watching  a  blue-bottle  fly  that  climbed  the 
window-pane  with  remorseless  industry,  only  to  slip  down 
again  at  the  very  instant  when  escape  into  the  open  air 
was  within  its  reach,  the  fly  grew  abruptly  into  gigantic 
proportions,  became  blurred  and  indistinct  as  it  did  so, 
covered  the  entire  pane  with  its  furry,  dark,  ugly  mass, 
and  frightened  him  so  that  he  stepped  back  with  a  cry 
and  nearly  lost  his  balance  altogether.  He  collapsed  into 
a  chair.  He  listened  with  closed  eyes.  The  metallic 
buzzing  was  audible,  a  small,  exasperating  sound,  ordin- 
arily unable  to  stir  any  emotion  beyond  a  mild  annoyance, 


238  The  Wolves  of  God 

Yet  it  was  terrible ;  that  so  huge  an  insect  should  make  so 
faint  a  sound  seemed  to  him  terrible. 

At  length  he  cautiously  opened  his  eyes.  The  fly  was 
of  normal  size  once  more.  He  hastily  flicked  it  out  of  the 
window. 

An  hour  later  he  was  talking  with  the  famous  oculist 
in  Harley  Street  .  .  .  about  the  advisability  of  start- 
ing reading-glasses.  He  found  it  difficult  to  relate  the 
rest.  A  curious  shyness  restrained  him. 

"Your  optic  nerves  might  belong  to  a  man  of  twenty," 
was  the  verdict.  "  Both  are  perfect.  But  at  your  age  it 
is  wise  to  save  the  sight  as  much  as  possible.  There  is 
a  slight  astigmatism.  .  .  ."  And  a  prescription  for 
the  glasses  was  written  out.  It  was  only  when  paying 
the  fee,  and  as  a  means  of  drawing  attention  from  the 
awkward  moment,  that  his  story  found  expression.  It 
seemed  to  come  out  in  spite  of  himself.  He  made  light 
of  it  even  then,  telling  it  without  conviction.  It  seemed 
foolish  suddenly  as  he  told  it.  "How  very  odd,"  observed 
the  oculist  vaguely,  "dear  me,  yes,  curious  indeed.  But 
that's  nothing.  H'm,  h'm  !  "  Either  it  was  no  concern 
of  his,  or  he  deemed  it  negligible.  .  .  .  His  only  other 
confidant  was  a  friend  of  psychological  tendencies  who 
was  interested  and  eager  to  explain.  It  is  on  the  instant 
plausible  explanation  of  anything  and  everything  that  the 
reputation  of  such  folk  depends;  this  one  was  true  to 
type:  "A  spontaneous  invention,  my  dear  fellow — a  pic- 
torial rendering  of  your  thought.  You  are  a  painter, 
aren't  you?  Well,  this  is  merely  a  rendering  in  picture- 
form  of  " — he  paused  for  effect,  the  other  hung  upon  his 
words — "  of  the  odd  expression  *  disappop. '  " 

"Ah  !  "  exclaimed  the  painter. 

"You  see  everything  pictorially,  of  course,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes — as  a  rule." 

"There  you  have  it.  Your  painter's  psychology  saw 
the  child  '  disappopping. '  That's  all." 


Wireless  Confusion  239 

"And  the  fly?"  But  the  fly  was  easily  explained, 
since  it  was  merely  the  process  reversed.  "Once  a  pro- 
cess has  established  itself  in  your  mind,  you  see,  it  may 
act  in  either  direction.  When  a  madman  says  '  I'm 
afraid  Smith  will  do  me  an  injury,'  it  means,  *  I  will  do 
an  injury  to  Smith.'"  And  he  repeated  with  finality, 
"That's  it." 

The  explanations  were  not  very  satisfactory,  the  illus- 
tration even  tactless,  but  then  the  problem  had  not  been 
stated  quite  fully.  Neither  to  the  oculist  nor  to  the 
other  had  all  the  facts  been  given.  The  same  shyness 
had  been  a  restraining-  influence  in  both  cases ;  a  detail 
had  been  omitted,  and  this  detail  was  that  he  connected 
the  occurrences  somehow  with  his  brother  whom  the  war 
had  taken. 

The  phenomenon  made  one  more  appearance — the  last 
—before  its  character,  its  field  of  action  rather,  altered. 
He  was  reading  a  book  when  the  print  became  now  large, 
now  small ;  it  blurred,  grew  remote  and  tiny,  then  so  huge 
that  a  single  word,  a  letter  even,  filled  the  whole  page. 
He  felt  as  if  someone  were  playing  optical  tricks  with  the 
mechanism  of  his  eyes,  trying  first  one,  then  another 
focus. 

More  curious  still,  the  meaning  of  the  words  them- 
selves became  uncertain ;  he  did  not  understand  them  any 
more ;  the  sentences  lost  their  meaning,  as  though  he  read 
a  strange  language,  or  a  language  little  known.  The 
flash  came  then — someone  was  using  his  eyes — someone 
else  was  looking  through  them. 

No,  it  was  not  his  brother.  The  idea  was  preposterous 
in  any  case.  Yet  he  shivered  again,  as  when  he  heard 
the  walking  wind,  for  an  uncanny  conviction  came 
over  him  that  it  was  someone  who  did  not  understand 
eyes,  but  was  manipulating  their  mechanism  experi- 
mentally. With  the  conviction  came  also  this :  that, 
while  not  his  brother,  it  was  someone  connected  with 
his  brother. 


240  The  Wolves  of  God 

Here,  moreover,  was  an  explanation  of  sorts,  for  if 
the  supernatural  existed — he  had  never  troubled  his  head 
about  it — he  could  accept  this  odd  business  as  a  mani- 
festation, and  leave  it  at  that.  He  did  so,  and  his  mind 
was  eased.  This  was  his  attitude  :  "The  supernatural 
may  exist.  Why  not?  We  cannot  know.  But  we  can 
watch."  His  eyes  and  brain,  at  any  rate,  were  proved  in 
good  condition. 

He  watched.  No  change  of  focus,  no  magnifying  or 
diminishing,  came  again.  For  some  weeks  he  noticed 
nothing  unusual  of  any  kind,  except  that  his  mind  often 
filled  now  with  Eastern  pictures.  Their  sudden  irruption 
caught  his  attention,  but  no  more  than  that ;  they  were 
sometimes  blurred  and  sometimes  vivid ;  he  had  never 
been  in  the  East;  he  attributed  them  to  his  constant 
thinking  of  his  brother,  missing  in  Mesopotamia  these 
six  months.  Photographs  in  magazines  and  newspapers 
explained  the  rest.  Yet  the  persistence  of  the  pictures 
puzzled  him  :  tents  beneath  hot  cloudless  skies,  palms,  a 
stretch  of  desert,  dry  watercourses,  camels,  a  mosque,  a 
minaret — typical  snatches  of  this  kind  flashed  into  his 
mind  with  a  sense  of  faint  familiarity  often.  He  knew, 
again,  the  return  of  a  fugitive  memory  he  could  not 
seize.  .  .  .  He  kept  a  note  of  the  dates,  all  of  them 
subsequent  to  the  day  he  read  his  brother's  fate  in  the 
official  Roll  of  Honour:  "Believed  missing;  now  killed." 
Only  when  the  original  phenomenon  returned,  but  in  its 
altered  form,  did  he  stop  the  practice.  The  change  then 
affected  his  life  too  fundamentally  to  trouble  about  mere 
dates  and  pictures. 

For  the  phenomenon,  shifting  its  field  of  action, 
abruptly  became  mental,  and  the  singular  change  of  focus 
took  place  now  in  his  mind.  Events  magnified  or  con- 
tracted themselves  out  of  all  relation  with  their  intrinsic 
values,  sense  of  proportion  went  hopelessly  astray.  Love, 
hate  and  fear  experienced  sudden  intensification,  or  abrupt 
dwindling  into  nothing;  the  familiar  everyday  emotions, 


Wireless  Confusion  241 

commonplace  daily  acts,  suffered  exaggerated  enlarge- 
ment, or  reduction  into  insignificance,  that  threatened  the 
stability  of  his  personality.  Fortunately,  as  stated,  they 
were  of  brief  duration ;  to  examine  them  in  detail  were  to 
touch  the  painful  absurdities  of  incipient  mania  almost; 
that  a  lost  collar  stud  could  block  his  exasperated 
mind  for  hours,  filling  an  entire  day  with  emotion, 
while  a  deep  affection  of  long  standing  could  ebb 
towards  complete  collapse  suddenly  without  apparent 
cause  .  .  .  ! 

It  was  the  unexpected  suddenness  of  Turkey's  spec- 
tacular defeat  that  closed  the  painful  symptoms.  The 
Armistice  saw  them  go.  He  knew  a  quick  relief  he  was 
unable  to  explain.  The  telegram  that  his  brother  was 
alive  and  safe  came  after  his  recovery  of  mental  balance. 
It  was  a  shock.  But  the  phenomena  had  ceased  before 
the  shock. 

It  was  in  the  light  of  his  brother's  story  that  he  re- 
viewed the  puzzling  phenomena  described.  The  story  was 
not  more  curious  than  many  another,  perhaps,  yet  the 
details  were  queer  enough.  That  a  wounded  Turk  to 
whom  he  gave  water  should  have  remembered  gratitude 
was  likely  enough,  for  all  travellers  know  that  these  men 
are  kindly  gentlemen  at  times;  but  that  this  Mohamme- 
dan peasant  should  have  been  later  a  member  of  a 
prisoner's  escort  and  have  provided  the  means  of  escape 
and  concealment — weeks  in  a  dry  watercourse  and  months 
in  a  hut  outside  the  town — seemed  an  incredible  stroke  of 
good  fortune.  "  He  brought  me  food  and  water  three 
times  a  week.  I  had  no  money  to  give  him,  so  I  gave 
him  my  Zeiss  glasses.  I  taught  him  a  bit  of  English  too. 
But  he  liked  the  glasses  best.  He  was  never  tired  of 
playing  with  'em — making  big  and  little,  as  he  called  it. 
He  learned  precious  little  English.  .'  .  ." 

"My  pair,  weren't  they?"  interrupted  his  brother. 
"My  old  climbing  glasses." 

"  Your  present  to  me  when  I  went  out,  yes.     So  really 


242  The  Wolves  of  God 

you  helped  me  to  save,  my  life.  I  told  the  old  Turk  that. 
I  was  always  thinking  about  you." 

"And  the  Turk?" 

"  No  doubt.  .  .  .  Through  my  mind,  that  is.  At 
any  rate,  he  asked  a  lot  of  questions  about  you.  I  showed 
him  your  photo.  He  died,  poor  chap — at  least  they  told 
me  so.  Probably  they  shot  him." 


XIII 
CONFESSION 

THE  fog-  swirled  slowly  round  him,  driven  by  a  heavy 
movement  of  its  own,  for  of  course  there  was  no  wind. 
It  hung-  in  poisonous  thick  coils  and  loops ;  it  rose  and 
sank ;  no  light  penetrated  it  directly  from  street  lamp  or 
motor-car,  though  here  and  there  some  big  shop-window 
shed  a  glimmering-  patch  upon  its  ever-shifting1  curtain. 

O'Reilly's  eyes  ached  and  smarted  with  the  incessant 
effort  to  see  a  foot  beyond  his  face.  The  optic  nerve 
grew  tired,  and  sight,  accordingly,  less  accurate.  He 
coughed  as  he  shuffled  forward  cautiously  through  the 
choking  gloom.  Only  the  stifled  rumble  of  crawling-  traffic 
persuaded  him  he  was  in  a  crowded  city  at  all — this,  and 
the  vague  outlines  of  groping  figures,  hugely  magnified, 
emerging  suddenly  and  disappearing  again,  as  they 
fumbled  along  inch  by  inch  towards  uncertain  destinations. 

The  figures,  however,  were  human  beings ;  they  were 
real.  That  much  he  knew.  He  heard  their  muffled  voices, 
now  close,  now  distant,  strangely  smothered  always.  He 
also  heard  the  tapping  of  innumerable  sticks,  feeling  for 
iron  railings  or  the  kerb.  These  phantom  outlines  repre- 
sented living  people.  He  was  not  alone. 

It  was  the  dread  of  finding  himself  quite  alone  that 
haunted  him,  for  he  was  still  unable  to  cross  an  open 
space  without  assistance.  He  had  the  physical  strength, 
it  was  the  mind  that  failed  him.  Midway  the  panic  terror 
might  descend  upon  him,  he  would  shake  all  over,  his 
will  dissolve,  he  would  shriek  for  help,  run  wildly — into 
the  traffic  probably — or,  as  they  called  it  in  his  North 

243 


244  The  Wolves  of  God 

Ontario  home,  "  throw,  a  fit  "  in  the  street  before  advanc- 
ing1 wheels.  He  was  not  yet  entirely  cured,  although  under 
ordinary  conditions  he  was  safe  enough,  as  Dr.  Henry  had 
assured  him. 

When  he  left  Regent's  Park  by  Tube  an  hour  ago  the 
air  was  clear,  the  November  sun  shone  brightly,  the  pale 
blue  sky  was  cloudless,  and  the  assumption  that  he  could 
manage  the  journey  across  London  Town  alone  was 
justified.  The  following  day  he  was  to  leave  for  Brighton 
for  the  week  of  final  convalescence  :  this  little  preliminary 
test  of  his  powers  on  a  bright  November  afternoon  was 
all  to  the  good.  Doctor  Henry  furnished  minute  instruc- 
tions :  "You  change  at  Piccadilly  Circus — without  leaving 
the  underground  station,  mind — and  get  out  at  South 
Kensington.  You  know  the  address  of  your  V.A.D. 
friend.  Have  your  cup  of  tea  with  her,  then  come  back 
the  same  way  to  Regent's  Park.  Come  back  before  dark 
— say  six  o'clock  at  latest.  It's  better."  He  had 
described  exactly  what  turns  to  take  after  leaving  the 
station,  so  many  to  the  right,  so  many  to  the  left ;  it  was 
a  little  confusing,  but  the  distance  was  short.  "You  can 
always  ask.  You  can't  possibly  go  wrong." 

The  unexpected  fog,  however,  now  blurred  these  in- 
structions in  a  confused  jumble  in  his  mind.  The  failure 
of  outer  sight  reacted  upon  memory.  The  V.A.D.  besides 
had  warned  him  that  her  address  was  "  not  easy  to  find  the 
first  time.  The  house  lies  in  a  backwater.  But  with  your 
'  backwoods '  instincts  you'll  probably  manage  it  better 
than  any  Londoner  !  "  She,  too,  had  not  calculated  upon 
the  fog. 

When  O'Reilly  came  up  the  stairs  at  South  Kensing- 
ton Station,  he  emerged  into  such  murky  darkness  that  he 
thought  he  was  still  underground.  An  impenetrable 
world  lay  round  him.  Only  a  raw  bite  in  the  damp 
atmosphere  told  him  he  stood  beneath  an  open  sky.  For 
some  little  time  he  stood  and  stared — a  Canadian  soldier, 
his  home  among  clear  brilliant  spaces,  now  face  to  face 


Confession  245 

for  the  first  time  in  his  life  with  that  thing-  he  had  so 
often  read  about — a  bad  London  fog".  With,  keenest  in- 
terest and  surprise  he  "  enjoyed  "  the  novel  spectacle  for 
perhaps  ten  minutes,  watching  the  people  arrive  and 
vanish,  and  wondering  why  the  station  lights  stopped  dead 
the  instant  they  touched  the  street — then,  with  a  sense  of 
adventure — it  cost  an  effort — he  left  the  covered  building 
and  plunged  into  the  opaque  sea  beyond. 

Repeating  to  himself  the  directions  he  had  received — 
first  to  the  right,  second  to  the  left,  once  more  to  the  left, 
and  so  forth — he  checked  each  turn,  assuring  himself  it 
was  impossible  to  go  wrong-.  He  made  correct  if  slow 
progress,  until  .someone  blundered  into  him  with  an  abrupt 
and  startling-  question  :  "  Is  this  right,  do  you  know,  for 
South  Kensington  Station?  " 

It  was  the  suddenness  that  startled  him  ;  one  moment 
there  was  no  one,  the  next  they  were  face  to  face,  another, 
and  the  stranger  had  vanished  into  the  gloom  with  a 
courteous  word  of  grateful  thanks.  But  the  little  shock 
of  interruption  had  put  memory  out  of  gear.  Had  he 
already  turned  twice  to  the  right,  or  had  he  not? 
O'Reilly  realized  sharply  he  had  forgotten  his  memorized 
instructions.  He  stood  still,  making-  strenuous  efforts  at 
recovery,  but  each  effort  left  him  more  uncertain  than 
before.  Five  minutes  later  he  was  lost  as  hopelessly  as 
any  townsman  who  leaves  his  tent  in  the  backwoods  with- 
out blazing  the  trees  to  ensure  finding  his  way  back  again. 
Even  the  sense  of  direction,  so  strong  in  him  among  his 
native  forests,  was  completely  gone.  There  were  no 
stars,  there  was  no  wind,  no  smell,  no'  sound  of  running 
water.  There  was  nothing  anywhere  to  guide  him, 
nothing  but  occasional  dim  outlines,  groping,  shuffling, 
emerging  and  disappearing  in  the  eddying  fog,  but  rarely 
coming  within  actual  speaking,  much  less  touching, 
distance.  He  was  lost  utterly  ;  more,  he  was  alone. 

Yet    not    quite    alone — the    thing    he    dreaded    most. 
There  were  figures  still  in  his  immediate  neighbourhood. 


246  The  Wolves  of  God 

They  emerged,  vanished,  reappeared,  dissolved.  No,  he 
was  not  quite  alone.  He  saw  these  thickenings  of  the 
fog,  he  heard  their  voices,  the  tapping  of  their  cautious 
sticks,  their  shuffling  feet  as  well.  They  were  real.  They 
moved,  it  seemed,  about  him  in  a  circle,  never  coming 
very  close. 

"But  they're  real,"  he  said  to  himself  aloud,  betraying 
the  weak  point  in  his  armour.  "They're  human  beings 
right  enough.  I'm  positive  of  that." 

He  had  never  argued  with  Dr.  Henry — he  wanted  to 
get  well ;  he  had  obeyed  implicitly,  believing  everything 
the  doctor  told  him — up  to  a  point.  But  he  had  always 
had  his  own  idea  about  these  "figures,"  because,  among 
them,  were  often  enough  his  own  pals  from  the  Somme, 
Gallipoli,  the  Mespot  horror,  too.  And  he  ought  to  know 
his  own  pals  when  he  saw  them  !  At  the  same  time  he 
knew  quite  well  he  had  been  "shocked,"  his  being  dis- 
located ;  half  dissolved  as  it  were,  his  system  pushed  into 
some  lopsided  condition  that  meant  inaccurate  registra- 
tion. True.  He  grasped  that  perfectly.  But,  in  that 
shock  and  dislocation,  had  he  not  possibly  picked  up 
another  gear?  Were  there  not  gaps  and  broken  edges, 
pieces  that  no  longer  dovetailed,  fitted  as  usual,  interstices, 
in  a  word?  Yes,  that  was  the  word — interstices.  Cracks, 
so  to  speak,  between  his  perception  of  the  outside  world 
and  his  inner  interpretation  of  these?  Between  memory 
and  recognition?  Between  the  various  states  of  con- 
sciousness that  usually  dovetailed  so  neatly  that  the  joints 
were  normally  imperceptible? 

His  state,  he  well  knew,  was  abnormal,  but  were  his 
symptoms  on  that  account  unreal?  Could  not  these 
"interstices"  be  used  by — others?  When  he  saw  his 
"figures,"  he  used  to  ask  himself  :  "Are  not  these 
the  real  ones,  and  the  others — the  human  beings — 
unreal?  " 

This  question  now  revived  in  him  with  a  new  intensity. 
Were  these  figures  in  the  fog  real  or  unreal?  The  man 


Confession  247 

who  had  asked  the  way  to  the  station,  was  he  not,  after 
all,  a  shadow  merely  ? 

By  the  use  of  his  cane  and  foot  and  what  of  sight  was 
left  to  him  he  knew  that  he  was  on  an  island.  A  lamp- 
post stood  up  solid  and  straight  beside  him,  shedding  its 
faint  patch  of  glimmering  light.  Yet  there  were  railings, 
however,  that  puzzled  him,  for  his  stick  hit  the  metal  rods 
distinctly  in  a  series.  And  there  should  be  no  railings 
round  an  island.  Yet  he  had  moist  certainly  crossed  a 
dreadful  open  space  to  get  where  he  was.  His  con- 
fusion and  bewilderment  increased  with  dangerous 
rapidity.  Panic  was  not  far  away. 

He  was  no  longer  on  an  omnibus  route.  A  rare  taxi 
crawled  past  occasionally,  a  whitish  patch  at  the  window 
indicating  an  anxious  human  face ;  now  and  again  came 
a  van  or  cart,  the  driver  holding  a  lantern  as  he  led  the 
stumbling  horse.  These  comforted  him,  rare  though  they 
were.  But  it  was  the  figures  that  drew  his  attention  most. 
He  was  quite  sure  they  were  real.  They  were  human 
beings  like  himself. 

For  all  that,  he  decided  he  might  as  well  be  positive 
on  the  point.  He  tried  one  accordingly — a  big  man  who 
rose  suddenly  before  him  out  of  the  very  earth. 

"Can  you  give  me  the  trail  to  Morley  Place?"  he 
asked. 

But  his  question  was  drowned  by  the  other's  simul-     / 
taneous  inquiry  in  a  voice  much  louder  than  his  own. 

"I  say,  is  this  right  for  the  Tube  station,  d'you  know? 
I'm  utterly  lost.  I  want  South  Ken." 

And  by  the  time  O'Reilly  had  pointed  the  direction 
whence  he  himself  had  just  come,  the  man  was  gone 
again,  obliterated,  swallowed  up,  not  so  much  as  his  foot- 
steps audible,  almost  as  if — it  seemed  again — He  never  had 
been  there  at  a1!. 

This  left  an  acute  unpleasantness  in  him,  a  sense  of 
bewilderment  greater  than  before.  He  waited  five 
minutes,  not  daring  to  move  a  step,  then  tried  another 


248  The  Wolves  of  God 

figure,  a  woman  this  time  who,  luckily,  knew  the  im- 
mediate neighbourhood  intimately.  She  gave  him 
elaborate  instructions  in  the  kindest  possible  way,  then 
vanished  with  incredible  swiftness  and  ease  into  the  sea 
of  gloom  beyond.  The  instantaneous  way  she  vanished 
was  disheartening,  upsetting;  it  was  so  uncannily  abrupt 
and  sudden.  Yet  she  comforted  him.  Morley  Place, 
according  to  her  version,  was  not  two  hundred  yards 
from  where  he  stood.  He  felt  his  way  forward,  step  by 
step,  using  his  cane,  crossing  a  giddy  open  space,  kicking 
the  kerb  with  each  boot  alternately,  coughing  and  choking 
all  the  time  as.  he  did  so. 

"They  were  real,  I  guess,  anyway,"  he  said  aloud. 
"They  were  both  real  enough  all  right.  And  it  may  lift  a 
bit  soon  ! "  He  was  making  a  great  effort  to  hold  him- 
self in  hand.  He  was  already  fighting,  that  is.  He 
realized  this  perfectly.  The  only  point  was — the  reality 
of  the  figures.  "  It  may  lift  now  any  minute,"  he  repeated 
louder.  In  spite  of  the  cold,  his  skin  was  sweating 
profusely. 

But,  of  course,  it  did  not  lift.  The  figures,  too,  became 
fewer.  No  carts  were  audible.  He  had  followed  the 
woman's  directions  carefully,  but  now  found  himself  in 
some  by-way,  evidently,  where  pedestrians  at  the  best  of 
times  were  rare.  There  was  dull  silence  all  about  him. 
His  foot  lost  the  kerb,  his  cane  swept  the  empty  air, 
striking  nothing  solid,  and  panic  rose  upon  him  with  its 
shuddering,  icy  grip.  He  was  alone,  he  knew  himself 
alone,  worse  still — he  was  in  another  open  space. 

It  took  him  fifteen  minutes  to  cross  that  open  space, 
most  of  the  way  upon  his  hands  and  knees,  oblivious  of 
the  icy  slime  that  stained  his  trousers,  froze  his  fingers, 
intent  only  upon  feeling  solid  support  against  his  back 
and  spine  again.  It  was  an  endless  period.  The  moment 
of  collapse  was  close,  the  shriek  already  rising  in  his 
throat,  the  shaking  of  the  whole  body  uncontrollable,  when 
— his  outstretched  fingers  struck  a  friendly  kerb,  and  he 


Confession  249 

saw  a  glimmering-  patch  of  diffused  radiance  overhead. 
With  a  great,  quick  effort  he  stood  upright,  and  an  instant 
later  his  stick  rattled  along  an  area  railing.  He  leaned 
against  it,  breathless,  panting,  his  heart  beating  painfully 
while  the  street  lamp  gave  him  the  further  comfort  of  its 
feeble  gleam,  the  actual  flame,  however,  invisible.  He 
looked  this  way  and  that ;  the  pavement  was  deserted. 
He  was  engulfed  in  the  dark  silence  of  the  fog. 

But  Morley  Place,  he  knew,  must  be  very  close  by 
now.  He  thought  of  the  friendly  little  V.A.D.  he  had 
known  in  France,  of  a  warm  bright  fire,  a  cup  of  tea  and 
a  cigarette.  One  more  effort,  he  reflected,  and  all  these 
would  be  his.  He  pluckily  groped  his  way  forward  again, 
crawling1  slowly  by  the  area  railings.  If  things  got  really 
bad  again,  he  would  ring  a  bell  and  ask  for  help,  much 
as  he  shrank  from  the  idea.  Provided  he  had  no  more 
open  spaces  to  cross,  provided  he  saw  no  more  figures 
emerging  and  vanishing  like  creatures  born  of  the  fog 
and  dwelling  within  it  as  within  their  native  element — it 
was  the  figures  he  now  dreaded  more  than  anything  else, 
more  even  than  the  loneliness — provided  the  panic 
sense 

A  faint  darkening  of  the  fog  beneath  the  next  lamp 
caught  his  eye  and  made  him  start.  He  stopped.  It  was 
not  a  figure  this  time,  it  was  the  shadow  of  the  pole 
grotesquely  magnified.  No,  it  moved.  It  moved  towards 
him.  A  flame  of  fire  followed  by  ice  flowed  through 
him.  It  was  a  figure — close  against  his  face.  It  was  a 
woman. 

The  doctor's  advice  came  suddenly  back  to  him,  the 
counsel  that  had  cured  him  of  a  hundred  phantoms  : 

"  Do  not  ignore  them.  Treat  them  as  real.  Speak 
and  go  with  them.  You  will  soon  prove  their  unreality 
then.  And  they  will  leave  you.  ..." 

He  made  a  brave,  tremendous  effort.  He  was  shaking. 
One  hand  clutched  the  damp  and  icy  area  railing. 

"Lost  your  way  like  myself,  haven't  you,  ma'am?  " 
Q 


250  The  Wolves  of  God 

he  said  in  a  voice  that  trembled.  "Do  you  know  where 
we  are  at  all?  Morley  Place  /'m  looking*  for " 

He  stopped  dead.  The  woman  moved  nearer  and  for 
the  first;  time  he  saw  her  face  clearly.  Its  ghastly  pallor, 
the  bright,  frightened  eyes  that  stared  with  a  kind  of 
dazed  bewilderment  into  his  own,  the  beauty  above  all, 
arrested  his  speech  midway.  The  woman  was  young,  her 
tall  figure  wrapped  in  a  dark  fur  coat. 

"Can  I  help  you?  "  he  asked  impulsively,  forgetting 
his  own  terror  for  the  moment.  He  was  more  than 
startled.  Her  air  of  distress  and  pain  stirred  a  peculiar 
anguish  in  him.  For  a  moment  she  made  no  answer, 
thrusting  her  white  face  closer  as  if  examining  him,  so 
close,  indeed,  that  he  controlled  with  difficulty  his  instinct 
to  shrink  back  a  little. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  she  asked  at  length,  searching  his 
eyes  intently.  "I'm  lost — I've  lost  myself.  I  can't  find 
my  way  back."  Her  voice  was  low,  a  curious  wailing  in 
it  that  touched  his  pity  oddly.  He  felt  his  own  distress 
merging  in  one  that  was  greater. 

"Same  here,"  he  replied  more  confidently.  "I'm 
terrified  of  being  alone,  too.  I've  had  shell-shock,  you 
know.  Let's  go  together.  We'll  find  a  way 
together " 

"Who  are  you!  "  the  woman  murmured,  still  staring 
at  him  with  her  big  bright  eyes,  their  distress,  however, 
no  whit  lessened.  She  gazed  at  him  as  though  aware 
suddenly  of  his  presence. 

He  told  her  briefly.  "And  I'm  going  to  tea  with  a 
V.A.D.  friend  in  Morley  Place.  What's  your  address? 
Do  you  know  the  name  of  the  street?  " 

She  appeared  not  to  hear  him,  or  not  to  understand 
exactly ;  it  was  as  if  she  was  not  listening  again. 

"I  came  out  so  suddenly,  so  unexpectedly,"  he  heard 
the  low  voice  with  pain  in  every  syllable;  "I  can't  find 

my  home  again.  Just  when  I  was  expecting  him  too " 

She  looked  about  her  with  a  distraught  expression  that 


Confession  251 

made  O'Reilly  long  to  carry  her  in  his  arms  to  safety 
then  and  there.  "'He  may  be  there  now — waiting-  for 
me  at  this  very  moment — and  I  can't  get  back."  And 
so  sad  was  her  votice  that  only  by  an  effort  did  O'!Reilly 
prevent  himself  putting  out  his  hand  to  touch  her.  More 
and  more  he  forgot  himself  in  his  desire  to  help  her. 
Her  beauty,  the  wonder  of  her  strange  bright  eyes  in 
the  pallid  face,  made  an  immense  appeal.  He  became 
calmer.  This  woman  was  real  enough.  He  asked 
again  the  address,  the  street  and  number,  the  distance 
she  thought  it  was.  "Have  you  any  idea  of  the  direc- 
tion, ma'am,  any  idea  at  all?  We'll  go  together 
and " 

She  suddenly  cut  him  short.  She  turned  her  head 
as  if  to  listen,  so  that  he  saw  her  profile  a  moment,  the 
outline  of  the  slender  neck,  a  glimpse  of  jewels  just 
below  the  fur. 

"  Hark  !  I  hear  him  calling  !  I  remember  ...  !  " 
And  she  was  gone  from  his  side  into  the  swirling  fog. 

Without  an  instant's  hesitation  O'Reilly  followed  her, 
not  only  because  he  wished  to  help,  but  because  he  dared 
not  be  left  alone.  The  presence  of  this  strange,  lost 
woman  comforted  him ;  he  must  not  lose  sight  of  her, 
whatever  happened.  He  had  to  run,  she  went  so 
rapidly,  ever  just  in  front,  moving  with  confidence  and 
certainty,  turning  right  and  left,  crossing  the  street, 
but  never  stopping,  never  hesitating,  her  companion 
always  at  her  heels  in  breathless  haste,  and  with  a  grow- 
ing terror  that  he  might  lose  her  any  minute.  The  way 
she  found  her  direction  through  the  dense  fog  was  mar- 
vellous enough,  but  O'Reilly's  only  thought  was  to  keep 
her  in  sight,  lest  his  own  panic  redescend  upon  him  with 
its  inevitable  collapse  in  the  dark  and  lonely  street.  It 
was  a  wild  and  panting  pursuit,  and  he  kept  her  in  view 
with  difficulty,  a  dim  fleeting  outline  always  a  few  yards 
ahead  of  him.  She  did  not  once  turn  her  head,  she 
uttered  no  sound,  no  cry;  she  hurried  forward  with  un- 


252  The  Wolves  of  God 

faltering  instinct.  Nor  did  the  chase  occur  to  him  once 
as  singular;  she  was  his  safety,  and  that  was  all  he 
realized. 

One  thing,  however,  he  remembered  afterwards, 
though  at  the  actual  time  he  no  more  than  registered  the 
detail,  paying  no  attention  to  it — a  definite  perfume  she 
left  upon  the  atmosphere,  one,  moreover,  that  he  knew, 
although  he  could  not  find  its  name  as  he  ran.  It  was 
associated  vaguely,  for  him,  with  something  unpleasant, 
something  disagreeable.  He  connected  it  with  misery 
and  pain.  It  gave  him  a  feeling  of  uneasiness.  More 
than  that  he  did  not  notice  at  the  moment,  nor  could  he 
remember — he  certainly  did  not  try — where  he  had  known 
this  particular  scent  before. 

Then  suddenly  the  woman  stopped,  opened  a  gate 
and  passed  into  a  small  private  garden — so  suddenly 
that  O'Reilly,  close  upon  her  heels,  only  just  avoided 
tumbling  into  her.  "You've  found  it?"  he  cried. 
"May  I  come  in  a  moment  with  you?  Perhaps  you'll 
let  me  telephone  to  the  doctor." 

She  turned  instantly.  Her  face,  close  against  his 
own,  was  livid. 

"Doctor!  "  she  repeated  in  an  awful  whisper.  The 
word  meant  terror  to  her.  O'Reilly  stood  amazed. 
For  a  second  or  two  neither  of  them  moved.  The  woman 
seemed  petrified. 

"Dr.  Henry,  you  know,"  he  stammered,  finding  his 
tongue  again.  "I'm  in  his  care.  He's  in  Harley 
Street." 

Her  face  cleared  as  suddenly  as  it  had  darkened, 
though  the  original  expression  of  bewilderment  and  pain 
still  hung  in  her  great  eyes.  But  the  terror  left  them, 
as  though  she  suddenly  forgot  some  association  that  had 
revived  it. 

"My  home,"  she  murmured.  "My  home  is  some- 
where here.  I'm  near  it.  I  must  get  back — in  time — 
for  him.  I  must.  He's  coming  to  me."  And  with 


Confession  253 

these  extraordinary  words  she  turned,  walked  up  the 
narrow  path,  and  stood  upon  the  porch  of  a  two-storey 
house  before  her  companion  had  recovered  from  his 
astonishment  sufficiently  to  move  or  utter  a  syllable  in 
reply.  The  front  door,  he  saw,  was  ajar.  It  had  been 
left  open. 

For  five  seconds,  perhaps  for  ten,  he  hesitated ;  it 
was  the  fear  that  the  door  would  close  and  shut  him 
out  that  brought  the  decision  to  his  will  and  muscles. 
He  ran  up  the  steps  and  followed  the  woman  into  a 
dark  hall  where  she  had  already  preceded  him,  and  amid 
whose  blackness  she  now  had  finally  vanished.  He 
closed  the  door,  not  knowing  exactly  why  he  did  so,  and 
knew  at  once  by  an  instinctive  feeling  that  the  house  he 
now  found  himself  in  with  this  unknown  woman  was 
empty  and  unoccupied.  In  a  house,  however,  he  felt 
safe.  It  was  the  open  streets  that  were  his  danger. 
He  stood  waiting,  listening  a  moment  before  he  spoke; 
and  he  heard  the  woman  moving  down  the  passage  from 
door  to  door,  repeating  to  herself  in  her  low  voice  of 
unhappy  wailing  some  words  he  could  not  understand  : 

"Where  is  it?  Oh,  where  is  it?  I  must  get 
back.  ..." 

O'Reilly  then  found  himself  abruptly  stricken  with 
dumbness,  as  though,  with  these  strange  words,  a  haunting 
terror  came  up  and  breathed  against  him  in  the  darkness. 

"Is  she  after  all  a  figure?"  ran  in  letters  of  fire 
across  his  numbed  brain.  "Is  she  unreal — or  real?" 

Seeking  relief  in  action  of  some  kind  he  put  out  a 
hand  automatically,  feeling  along  the  wall  for  an  electric 
switch,  and  though  he  found  it  by  some  miraculous 
chance,  no  answering  glow  responded  to  the  click. 

And  the  woman's  voice  from  the  darkness:  "Ah! 
Ah !  At  last  I've  found  it.  I'm  home  again — at 
last  ...  !  "  He  heard  a  door  open  and  close  upstairs. 
He  was  on  the  ground-floor  now — alone.  Complete 
silence  followed. 


254  The  Wolves  of  God 

In  the  conflict  of  various  emotions — fear  for  himself 
lest  his  panic  should  return,  fear  for  the  woman  who  had 
led  him  into  this  empty  house  and  now  deserted  him  upon 
some  mysterious  errand  of  her  own  that  made  him  think 
of  madness — in  this  conflict  that  held  him  a  moment  spell- 
bound, there  was  a  yet  bigger  ingredient  demanding 
instant  explanation,  but  an  explanation  that  he  could  not 
find.  Was  the  woman  real  or  was  she  unreal?  Was 
she  a  human  being  or  a  "  figure  "  ?  The  horror  of  doubt 
obsessed  him  with  an  acute  uneasiness  that  betrayed 
itself  in  a  return  of  that  unwelcome  'inner  trembling  he 
knew  was  dangerous. 

What  saved  him  from  a  crise  that  must  have  had 
most  dangerous  results  for  his  mind  and  nervous  system 
generally,  seems  to  have  been  the  outstanding  fact 
that  he  felt  more  for  the  woman  than  for  himself.  His 
sympathy  and  pity  had  been  deeply  moved ;  her  voice, 
her  beauty,  her  anguish  and  bewilderment,  all  uncommon, 
inexplicable,  mysterious,  formed  together  a  claim  that 
drove  self  into  the  background.  Added  to  this  was  the 
detail  that  she  had  left  him,  gone  to  another  floor  without 
a  word,  and  now,  behind  a  closed  door  in  a  room  upstairs, 
found  herself  face  to  face  at  last  with  the  unknown  object 
of  her  frantic  search — with  "it,"  whatever  "it"  might 
be.  Real  or  unreal,  figure  or  human  being,  the  over- 
mastering impulse  of  his  being  was  that  he  must  go  to 
her. 

It  was  this  clear  impulse  that  gave  him  decision  and 
energy  to  do  what  he  then  did.  He  struck  a  match,  he 
found  a  iStump  of  candle,  he  made  his  way  by  means'  of 
this  flickering  light  along  the  passage  and  up  the  carpet- 
less  stairs.  He  moved  cautiously,  stealthily,  though  not 
knowing  why  he  did  so.  The  house,  he  now  saw,  was 
indeed  untenanted ;  dust-sheets  covered  the  piled-up 
furniture ;  he  glimpsed  through  doors  ajar,  pictures  were 
screened  upon  the  walls,  brackets  draped  to  look  like 
hooded  heads.  He  went  on  slowly,  steadily,  moving  on 


Confession  255 

tiptoe  as  though  conscious  of  being-  watched,  noting  the 
well  of  darkness  in  the  hall  below,  the  grotesque  shadows 
that  his  movements  cast  on  walls  and  ceiling.  The 
silence  was  unpleasant,  yet,  remembering  that  the  woman 
was  "expecting"  someone,  he  did  not  wish  it  broken. 
He  reached  the  landing  and  stood  still.  Closed  doors  on 
both  sides  of  a  corridor  met  his  sight,  as  he  shaded  the 
candle  to  examine  the  scene.  Behind  which,  of  these 
doors,  he  asked  himself,  was  the  woman,  figure  or  human 
being,  now  alone  with  "  it  "? 

There  was  nothing  to  guide  him,  but  an  instinct  that 
he  must  not  delay  sent  him  forward  again  upon  his  search. 
He  tried  a  door  on  the  right — an  empty  room,  with  the 
furniture  hidden  by  dust-sheets,  and  the  mattress  rolled 
up  on  the  bed.  He  tried  a  second  door,  leaving  the  first 
one  open  behind  him,  and  it  was,  similarly,  an  empty 
bedroom.  Coming  out  into  the  corridor  again  he  stood 
a  moment  waiting,  then  called  aloud  in  a  low  voice  that 
yet  woke  echoes  unpleasantly  in  the  hall  below  :  "  Where 
are  you  ?  I  want  to  help — which  room  are  you  in  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer;  he  was  almost  glad  he  heard 
no  sound,  for  he  knew  quite  well  that  he  was  waiting 
really  for  another  sound — the  steps  of  him  who  was  "ex- 
pected." And  the  idea  of  meeting  with  this  unknown 
third  sent  a  shudder  through  him,  as  though  related  to 
an  interview  he  dreaded  with  his  whole  heart,  and  must 
at  all  costs  avoid.  Waiting  another  moment  or  two,  ihe 
noted  that  his  candle-stump  was  burning  low,  then  crossed 
the  landing  with  a  feeling,  at  once  of  hesitation  and 
determination,  towards  a  door  opposite  to  him.  He 
opened  it ;  he  did  not  halt  on  the  threshold.  Holding  the 
candle  at  arm's  length,  he  went  boldly  in. 

And  instantly  his  nostrils  told  him  he  was  right  at 
last,  for  a  whiff  of  the  strange  perfume,  though  this  time 
much  stronger  than  'before,  greeted  him,  sending  a  new 
quiver  along  his  nerves.  He  knew  now  why  it  was 
associated  with  unpleasantness,  with  pain,  with  misery, 


256  The  Wolves  of  God 

for  he  recognized  it— the  odour  of  a  hospital.  In  this 
room  a  powerful  anaesthetic  had  been  used — and  recently. 

Simultaneously  with  smell,  sight  brought  its  message 
too.  On  the  large  double  bed  behind  the  door  on  his 
right  lay,  to  his  amazement,  the  woman  in  the  dark  fur 
coat.  He  saw  the  jewels  on  the  slender  neck ;  but  the 
eyes  he  did  not  see,  for  they  were  closed — closed,  too  he 
grasped  at  once,  in  death.  The  body  lay  stretched  at  full 
length,  quite  motionless.  He  approached.  A  dark  thin 
streak  that  came  from  the  parted  lips  and  passed  down- 
wards over  the  chin,  losing  itself  then  in  the  fur  collar, 
was  a  trickle  of  blood.  It  was  hardly  dry.  It  glistened. 

Strange  it  was  perhaps  that,  while  imaginary  fears  had 
the  power  to  paralyse  him,  mind  and  body,  this  sight  of 
something  real  had  the  effect  of  restoring  confidence.  The 
sight  of  blood  and  death,  amid  conditions  often  ghastly 
and  even  monstrous,  was  no  new  thing  to  him.  He  went 
up  quietly,  and  with  steady  hand  he  felt  the  woman's 
cheek,  the  warmth  of  recent  life  still  in  its  softness.  The 
final  cold  had  not  yet  mastered  this  empty  form  whose 
beauty,  in  its  perfect  stillness,  had  taken  on  the  new 
strange  sweetness  of  an  unearthly  bloom.  Pallid,  silent, 
untenanted,  it  lay  before  him,  lit  by  the  flicker  of  his 
guttering  candle.  He  lifted  the  fur  coat  to  feel  for  the 
unbeating  heart.  A  couple  of  hours  ago  at  most,  he 
judged,  this  heart  was  working  busily,  the  breath  came 
through  those  parted  lips,  the  eyes  were  shining  in  full 
beauty.  His  hand  encountered  a  hard  knob — the  head  of 
a  long  steel  hat-pin  driven  through  the  heart  up  to  its  hilt. 

He  knew  then  which  was  the  figure — which  was  the 
real  and  which  the  unreal.  He  knew  also  what  had  been 
meant  by  "it." 

But  before  he  could  think  or  reflect  what  action  he 
must  take,  before  he  could  straighten  himself  even  from 
his  bent  position  over  the  body  on  the  bed,  there  sounded 
through  the  empty  house  below  the  loud  clang  of  the  front 
door  being  closed.  And  instantly  rushed  over  him  that 


Confession  257 

other  fear  he  had  so  long  forgotten — fear  for  himself. 
The  panic  of  his  own  shaken  nerves  descended  with 
irresistible  onslaught.  He  turned,  extinguishing  the 
candle  in  the  violent  trembling  of  his  hand,  and  tore  head- 
long from  the  room. 

The  following  ten  minutes  seemed  a  nightmare  in 
which  he  was  not  master  of  himself  and  knew  not  exactly 
what  he  did.  All  He  realized  was  that  steps  already 
sounded  on  the  stairs,  coming  quickly  nearer.  The  flicker 
of  an  electric  torch  played  on  the  banisters,  whose 
shadows  ran  swiftly  sideways  along  the  wall  as  the  hand 
that  held  the  light  ascended.  He  thought  in  a  frenzied 
second  of  police,  of  his  presence  in  the  house,  of  the  mur- 
dered woman.  It  was  a  sinister  combination.  Whatever 
happened,  he  must  escape  without  'being  so  much  as  even 
seen.  His  heart  raced  madly.  He  darted  across  the  land- 
ing into  the  room  opposite,  whose  door  he  had  luckily  left 
open.  And  by  some  incredible  chance,  apparently,  he  was 
neither  seen  nor  heard  by  the  man  who,  a  moment  later, 
reached  the  landing,  entered  the  room  where  the  body  of 
the  woman  lay,  and  closed  the  door  carefully  behind  him. 

Shaking,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe  lest  his  breath  be 
audible,  O'Reilly,  in  the  grip  of  his  own  personal  terror, 
remnant  of  his  uncured  shock  of  war,  had  no  thought  of 
what  duty  might  demand  or  not  demand  of  him.  He 
thought  only  of  himself.  He  realized  one  clear  issue — that 
he  must  get  out  of  the  house  without  being  heard  or  seen. 
Who  the  new-comer  was  he  did  not  know,  beyond  an  un- 
canny assurance  that  it  was  not  him  whom  the  woman 
had  "expected,"  but  the  murderer  himself,  and  that  it  was 
the  murderer,  in  his  turn,  who  was  expecting  this  third 
person.  In  that  room  with  death  at  his  elbow,  a  death 
he  had  himself  brought  about  but  an  hour  or  two  ago, 
the  murderer  now  hid  in  waiting  for  his  second  victim. 
And  the  door  was  closed. 

Yet  any  minute  it  might  open  again,  cutting  off 
retreat. 


258  The  Wolves  of  God 

O'Reilly  crept  out,  stole  across  the  landing,  reached 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  began,  with  the  utmost  caution, 
the  perilous  descent.  Each  time  the  bare  boards  creaked 
beneath  his  weight,  no  matter  how  stealthily  this  weight 
was  adjusted,  his  heart  missed  a  beat.  He  tested  each 
step  before  he  pressed  upon  it,  distributing  as  much  of  his 
weight  as  he  dared  upon  the  banisters.  It  was  a  little 
more  than  half-way  down  that,  to  his  horror,  his  foot 
caught  in  a  projecting  carpet  tack ;  he  slipped  on  the 
polished  wood,  and  only  saved  himself  from  falling  head- 
long by  a  wild  clutch  at  the  railing,  making  an  uproar 
that  seemed  to  him  like  the  explosion  of  a  hand-grenade 
in  the  forgotten  trenches.  His  nerves  gave  way  then,  and 
panic  seized  him.  In  the  silence  that  followed  the  re- 
sounding echoes  he  heard  the  bedroom  door  opening  on 
the  floor  above. 

Concealment  was  now  useless.  It  was  impossible,  too. 
He  look  the  last  flight  of  stairs  in  a  series  of  leaps,  four 
steps  at  a  time,  reached  the  hall,  flew  across  it,  and 
opened  the  front  door,  just  as  his  pursuer,  electric  torch 
in  hand,  covered  half  the  stairs  behind  him.  Slamming 
the  door,  he  plunged  headlong  into  the  welcome,  all- 
obscuring  fog  outside. 

The  fog  had  now  no  terrors  for  him,  he  welcomed 
its  concealing  mantle ;  nor  did  it  matter  in  which  direction 
he  ran  so  long  as  he  put  distance  between  him  and  the 
house  of  death.  The  pursuer  had,  of  course,  not  followed 
him  into  the  street.  He  crossed  open  spaces  without  a 
tremor.  He  ran  in  a  circle  nevertheless,  though  without 
being  aware  he  did  so.  No  people  were  about,  no  single 
groping  shadow  passed  him,  no  boom  of  traffic  reached 
his  ears,  when  he  paused  for  breath  at  length  against  an 
area  railing.  Then  for  the  first  time  he  made  the  discovery 
that  he  had  no  hat.  He  remembered  now.  In  examining 
-the  body,  partly  out  of  respect,  partly  perhaps  uncon- 
sciously, he  had  taken  it  off  and  laid  it — on  the  very  bed. 

It  was  there,  a  tell-tale  bit  of  damning  evidence,  in  the 


Confession  259 

house  of  death.  And  a  series  of  probable  consequences- 
flashed  through  his  mind  like  lightning*.  It  was  a  new 
hat  fortunately ;  more  fortunate  still,  he  had  not  yet 
written  name  or  initials  in  it;  but  the  maker's  mark  was 
there  for  all  to  read,  and  the  police  would  go  immediately 
to  the  shop  where  he  had  bought  it  only  two  days  before. 
Would  the  shop-people  remember  his  appearance?  Would 
his  visit,  the  date,  the  conversation  be  recalled?  He 
thought  it  was  unlikely ;  he  resembled  dozens  of  men ; 
he  had  no  outstanding  peculiarity.  He  tried  to  think,  but 
his  mind  was  confused  and  troubled,  his  heart  was  beating 
dreadfully,  he  felt  desperately  ill.  He  sought  vainly  for 
some  story  to  account  for  his  being  out  in  the  fog  and  far 
from  home  without  a  hat.  No  single  idea  presented  itself. 
He  clung  to  the  icy  railings,  hardly  able  to  keep  upright, 
collapse  very  near — when  suddenly  a  figure  emerged  from 
the  fog,  paused  a  moment  to  stare  at  him,  put  out  a  hand 
and  caught  him,  and  then  spoke  : 

"You're  ill,  my  dear  sir,"  said  a  man's  kindly  voice. 
"Can  I  be  of  any  assistance?  Come,  let  me  help  you." 
He  had  seen  at  once  that  it  was  not  a  case  of  drunkenness. 
"Come,  take  my  arm,  won't  you?  I'm  a  physician. 
Luckily,  too,  you  are  just  outside  my  very  house.  Come 
in."  And  he  half  dragged,  half  pushed  O'Reilly,  now 
bordering  on  collapse,  up  the  steps  and  opened  the  door 
with  his  latch-key. 

"Felt  ill  suddenly — lost  in  the  fog  .  .  .  terrified,  but 
be  all  right  soon,  thanks  awfully "  the  Canadian  stam- 
mered his  gratitude,  but  already  feeling  better.  He  sank 
into  a  chair  in  the  hall,  while  the  other  put  down  a  paper 
parcel  he  had  been  carrying,  and  led  him  presently  into  a 
comfortable  room ;  a  fire  burned  brightly ;  the  electric 
lamps  were  pleasantly  shaded ;  a  decanter  of  whisky  and  a 
siphort  stood  on  a  small  table  beside  a  big  arm-chair ;  and 
before  O'Reilly  could  find  another  word  to  say  the  other 
had  poured  him  out  a  glass  and  bade  him  sip  it  slowly, 
without  troubling  to  talk  till  he  felt  better. 


26o  The  Wolves  of  God 

"That  will  revive  you.  Better  drink  it  slowly.  You 
should  never  have  been  out  a  night  like  this.  If  you've 
far  to  go,  better  let  me  put  you  up " 

"Very  kind,  very  kind,  indeed,"  mumbled  O'Reilly,  re- 
covering rapidly  in  the  comfort  of  a  presence  he  already 
liked  and  felt  even  drawn  to. 

"No  trouble  at  all,"  returned  the  doctor.  "I've  been 
at  the  front,  you  know.  I  can  see  what  your  trouble 
is— shell-shock,  I'll  be  bound." 

The  Canadian,  much  impressed  by  the  other's  quick 
diagnosis,  noted  also  his  tact  and  kindness.  He  had 
made  no  reference  to  the  absence  of  a  hat,  for  instance. 

"Quite  true,"  he  said.  "I'm  with  Dr.  Henry,  in 
Harley  Street,"  and  he  added  a  few  words  about  his 
case.  The  whisky  worked  its  effect,  he  revived  more 
and  more,  feeling  better  every  minute.  The  other  handed 
him  a  cigarette;  they  began  to  talk  about  his  symptoms 
and  recovery ;  confidence  returned  in  a  measure,  though 
he  still  felt  badly  frightened.  The  doctor's  manner  and 
personality  did  much  to  help,  for  there  was  strength  and 
gentleness  in  the  face,  though  the  features  showed  un- 
usual determination,  softened  occasionally  by  a  sudden 
hint  as  of  suffering  in  the  bright,  compelling  eyes.  It 
was  the  face,  thought  O'Reilly,  of  a  man  who  had  seen 
much  and  probably  been  through  hell,  but  of  a  man  who 
was  simple,  good,  sincere.  Yet  not  a  man  to  trifle  with ; 
behind  his  gentleness  lay  something  very  stern.  This 
effect  of  character  and  personality  woke  the  other's 
respect  in  addition  to  his  gratitude.  His  sympathy  was 
stirred. 

"You  encourage  me  to  make  another  guess,"  the  man 
was  saying,  after  a  successful  reading  of  the  impromptu 
patient's  state,  "that  you  have  had,  namely,  a  severe 
shock  quite  recently,  and  " — he  hesitated  for  the  merest 
fraction  of  a  second — "that  it  would  be  a  relief  to  you," 
he  went  on,  the  skilful  suggestion  in  the  voice  unnoticed 
by  his  companion,  "it  would  be  wise  as  well,  if  you 


Confession  261 

could  unburden  yourself  to — someone — who  would  under- 
stand. "  He  looked  at  O'Reilly  with  a  kindly  and  very 
pleasant  smile.  "Am  I  not  right,  perhaps?  "  he  asked 
in  his  gentle  tone. 

"Someone  who  would  understand,"  repeated  the 
Canadian.  "That's  my  trouble  exactly.  You've  hit  it. 
It's  all  so  incredible." 

The  other  smiled.  "The  more  incredible,"  he  sug- 
gested, "the  greater  your  need  for  expression.  Suppres- 
sion, as  you  may  know,  is  dangerous  in  cases  like  this. 
You  think  you  have  hidden  it,  but  it  bides  its  time  and 
comes  up  later,  causing  a  lot  of  trouble.  Confession, 
you  know  " — he  emphasized  the  word — "confession  is 
good  for  the  soul !  " 

"You're  dead  right,"  agreed  the  other. 

"  Now,  if  you  can,  bring  yourself  to  tell  it  to  someone 
who  will  listen  and  believe — to  myself,  for  instance.  I 
am  a  doctor,  familiar  with  such  things.  I  shall  regard 
all  you  say  as  a  professional  confidence,  of  course ;  and, 
as  we  are  strangers,  my  belief  or  disbelief  is  of  no 
particular  consequence.  I  may  tell  you  in  advance  of 
your  story,  however — I  think  I  can  promise  it — that  I 
shall  believe  all  you  have  to  say." 

O'Reilly  told  his  story  without  more  ado,  for  the  sug- 
gestion of  the  skilled  physician  had  found  easy  soil  to 
work  in.  During  the  recital  his  host's  eyes  never  once 
left  his  own.  He  moved  no  single  muscle  of  his  body. 
His  interest  seemed  intense. 

"A  bit  tall,  isn't  it?"  said  the  Canadian,  when  his 
tale  was  finished.  "And  the  question  is "  he  con- 
tinued with  a  threat  of  volubility  which  the  other  checked 
instantly. 

"Strange,  yes,  but  incredible,  no,"  the  doctor  inter- 
rupted. "I  see  no  reason  to  disbelieve  a  single  detail  of 
what  you  have  just  told  me.  Things  equally  remarkable, 
equally  incredible,  happen  in  all  large  towns,  as  I  know 
from  personal  experience.  I  could  give  you  instances." 


262  The  Wolves  of  God 

He  paused  a  moment,  but  his  companion,  staring  into  his 
eyes  with  interest  and  curiosity,  made  no  comment. 
"Some  years  ago,  in  fact,"  continued  the  other,  "I  knew 
of  a  very  similar  case — strangely  similar." 

"  Really  !    I  should  be  immensely  interested " 

"So  similar  that  it  seems  almost  a  coincidence.  You 
may  find  it  hard,  in  your  turn,  to  credit  it."  He  paused 
again,  while  O'Reilly  sat  forward  in  his  chair  to  listen. 
"Yes,"  pursued  the  doctor  slowly,  "I  think  everyone 
connected  with  it  is  now  dead.  There  is  no  reason  why 
I  should  not  tell  it,  for  one  confidence  deserves  another, 
you  know.  It  happened  during  the  Boer  War — as  long 
ago  as  that,"  he  added  with  emphasis.  "It  is  really  a 
very  commonplace  story  in  one  way,  though  very  dreadful 
in  another,  but  a  man  who  has  served  at  the  front  will 
understand  and — I'm  sure — will  sympathize." 

"I'm   sure  of  that,"    offered  the  other  readily. 

"A  colleague  of  mine,  now  dead,  as  I  mentioned — a 
surgeon,  with  a  big  practice,  married  a  young  and  charm- 
ing girl.  They  lived  happily  together  for  several  years. 
His  wealth  made  her  very  comfortable.  His  consulting- 
room,  I  must  tell  you,  was  some  distance  from  his  house 
— just  as  this  might  be — so  that  she  was  never  bothered 
with  any  of  his  cases.  Then  came  the  war.  Like  many 
others,  though  much  over  age,  he  volunteered.  He  gave 
up  his  lucrative  practice  and  went  to  South  Africa.  His 
income,  of  course,  stopped ;  the  big  house  was  closed ; 
his  wife  found  her  life  of  enjoyment  considerably  cur- 
tailed. This  she  considered  a  great  hardship,  it  seems. 
She  felt  a  bitter  grievance  against  him.  Devoid  of 
imagination,  without  any  power  of  sacrifice,  a  selfish  type, 
she  was  yet  a  beautiful,  attractive  woman — and  young. 
The  inevitable  lover  came  upon  the  scene  to  console  her. 
They  planned  to  run  away  together.  He  was  rich.  Japan 
they  thought  would  suit  them.  Only,  by  some  ill  luck, 
the  husband  got  wind  of  it  and  arrived  in  London  just 
in  the  nick  of  time." 


Confession  263 

"Well  rid  of  her,"  put  in  O'Reilly,  "I  think. " 

The  doctor  waited  a  moment.  He  sipped  his  glass. 
Then  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  companion's  face  somewhat 
sternly. 

"Well  rid  of  her,  yes,"  he  continued,  "only  he  deter- 
mined to  make  that  riddance  final.  He  decided  to  kill 
her — and  her  lover.  You  see,  he  loved  her." 

O'Reilly  made  no  comment.  In  his  own  country  this 
method  with  a  faithless  woman  was  not  unknown.  His 
interest  was  very  concentrated.  But  he  was  thinking-,  too, 
as  he  listened,  thinking  hard. 

"He  planned  the  time  and  place  with  care,"  resumed 
the  other  in  a  lower  voice,  as  though  he  might  possibly 
be  overheard.  "They  met,  he  knew,  in  the  big  house, 
now  closed,  the  house  where  he  and  his  young  wife  had 
passed  such  happy  years  during  their  prosperity.  The 
plan  failed,  however,  in  an  important  detail — the  woman 
came  at  the  appointed  hour,  but  without  her  lover.  She 
found  death  waiting  for  her — it  was  a  painless  death. 
Then  her  lover,  who  was  to  arrive  half  an  hour  later, 
did  not  come  at  all.  The  door  had  been  left  open  for  him 
purposely.  The  house  was  dark,  its  rooms  shut  up, 
deserted ;  there  was  no  caretaker  even.  It  was  a  foggy 
night — just  like  this." 

"And  the  other?"  asked  O'Reilly  in  a  failing  voice. 
"The  lover " 

"A  man  did  come  in,"  the  doctor  went  on  calmly, 
"but  it  was  not  the  lover.  It  was  a  stranger." 

"A  stranger?"  the  other  whispered.  "And  the 
surgeon — where  was  he  all  this  time?  " 

"Waiting  outside  to  see  him  enter — concealed  in  the 
fog.  He  saw  the  man  go  in.  Five  minutes  later  he 
followed,  meaning  to  complete  his  vengeance,  his  act  of 
justice,  whatever  you  like  to  call  it.  But  the  man  who 
had  come  in  was  a  stranger — he  came  in  by  chance — just 
as  you  might  have  done — to  shelter  from  the  fog — or " 

O'Reilly,  though  with  a  great  effort,  rose  abruptly  to 


264  The  Wolves  of  God 

his  feet.  He  had  an  appalling"  feeling"  that  the  man  facing1 
him  was  mad.  He  had  a  keen  desire  to  get  outside,  fog 
or  no  fog,  to  leave  this  room,  to  escape  from  the  calm 
accents  of  this  insistent  voice.  The  effect  of  the  whisky 
was  still  in  his  blood.  He  felt  no  lack  of  confidence.  But 
words  came  to  him  with  difficulty. 

"I  think  I'd  better  be  pushing  off  now,  doctor,"  he 
said  clumsily.  "But  I  feel  I  must  thank  you  very  much 
for  all  your  kindness  and  help."  He  turned  and  looked 
hard  into  the  keen  eyes  facing  him.  "Your  friend,"  he 
asked  in  a  whisper,  "the  surgeon — I  hope — I  mean,  was 
he  ever  caught?  " 

"No,"  was  the  grave  reply,  the  doctor  standing  up 
in  front  of  him,  "he  was  never  caught." 

O'Reilly  waited  a  moment  before  he  made  another 
remark.  "Well,"  he  said  at  length,  but  in  a  louder  tone 
than  before,  "I  think — I'm  glad."  He  went  to  the  door 
without  shaking  hands. 

"You  have  no  hat,"  mentioned  the  voice  behind  him. 
"If  you'll  wait  a  moment  I'll  get  you  one  of  mine.  You 
need  not  trouble  to  return  it."  And  the  doctor  passed 
him,  going  into  the  hall.  There  was  a  sound  of  tearing 
paper.  O'Reilly  left  the  house  a  moment  later  with  a  hat 
upon  his  head,  but  it  was  not  till  he  reached  the  Tube 
station  half  an  hour  afterwards  that  he  realized  it  was 
his  own. 


XIV 
THE  LANE  THAT  RAN  EAST  AND  WEST 


THE  curving-  strip  of  lane,  fading  into  invisibility  east  and 
west,  had  always  symbolized  life  to  her.  In  some  minds 
life  pictures  itself  a  straight  line,  uphill,  downhill,  flat, 
as  the  case  may  be;  iin  hers  it  had  been,  since  childhood, 
this  sweep  of  country  lane  that  ran  past  her  cottage  door. 
In  thick  white  summer  dust,  she  invariably  visualized  it, 
blue  and  yellow  flowers  along  its  untidy  banks  of  green. 
It  flowed,  it  glided,  sometimes  it  rushed.  Without  a 
sound  it  ran  along  past  the  nut  trees  and  the  brambles 
where  honeysuckle  and  wild  roses  shone.  With  every 
year  now  its  silent  speed  increased. 

From  either  end  she  imagined,  as  a  child,  that  she 
looked  over  iinto  outer  space — from  the  eastern  end  into 
the  infinity  before  birth,  from  the  western  into  the  infinity 
that  follows  death.  It  was  to  her  of  real  importance. 

From  the  veranda  the  entire  stretch  was  visible,  not 
more  than  five  hundred  yards  at  most ;  from  the  platform 
in  her  mind,  whence  she  viewed  existence,  she  saw  her 
own  life,  similarly,  as  a  white  curve  of  flowering  lane, 
arising  she  knew  not  whence,  gliding  whither  she  could 
not  tell.  At  eighteen  she  had  paraphrased  the  quatrain 
with  a  smile  upon  her  red  lips,  her  chin  tilted,  her  strong 
grey  eyes  rather  wistful  with  yearning — 

Into  this  little  lane,  and  why  not  knowing, 
Nor  whence,  like  water  willy-nilly  flowing, 
And  out  again — like  dust  along  the  waste, 
I  know  not  whither,  willy-nilly  blowing. 
£  265 


266  The  Wolves  of  God 

At  thirty  she  now  repeated  it,  the  smile  still  there, 
but  the  lips  not  quite  so  red,  the  chin  a  trifle  firmer,  the 
grey  eyes  stronger,  clearer,  but  charged  with  a  more 
wistful  and  a  deeper  yearning. 

It  was  her  turn  of  mind,  imaginative,  introspective, 
querulous  perhaps,  that  made  the  bit  of  running  lane 
significant.  Food  with  the  butcher's  and  baker's  carts 
came  to  her  from  its  eastern,  its  arriving  end,  as  she 
called  it ;  news  with  the  postman,  adventure  with  rare 
callers.  Youth,  hope,  excitement,  all  these  came  from  the 
sunrise.  Thence  came  likewise  spring  and  summer, 
flowers,  butterflies,  the  swallows.  The  fairies,  in  her 
childhood,  had  come  that  way  too,  their  silver  feet  and 
gossamer  wings  brightening  the  summer  dawns ;  and  it 
was  but  a  year  ago  that  Dick  Messenger,  his  car  stirring 
a  cloud  of  thick  white  dust,  had  also  come  into  her  life 
from  the  space  beyond  the  sunrise. 

She  sat  thinking  about  him  now — how  he  had  sud- 
denly appeared  out  of  nothing  that  warm  June  morning, 
asked  her  permission  about  some  engineering  business  on 
the  neighbouring  big  estate  over  the  hill,  given  her  a  dog- 
rose  and  a  bit  of  fern-leaf,  and  eventually  gone  away  with 
her  promise  when  he  left.  Out  of  the  eastern  end  he 
appeared ;  into  the  western  end  he  vanished. 

For  there  was  this  departing  end  as  well,  where  the 
lane  curved  out  of  sight  into  the  space  behind  the  yellow 
sunset.  In  this  direction  went  all  that  left  her  life.  Her 
parents,  each  in  turn,  had  taken  that  way  to  the  church- 
yard. Spring,  summer,  the  fading  butterflies,  the  restless 
swallows,  all  left  her  round  that  western  curve.  Later  the 
fairies  followed  them,  her  dreams  one  by  one,  the  vanish- 
ing years  as  well — and  now  her  youth,  swifter,  ever 
swifter,  into  the  region  where  the  sun  dipped  nightly 
among  pale  rising  stars,  leaving  her  brief  strip  of  life 
colder,  more  and  more  unlit. 

Just  beyond  this  end  she  imagined  shadows. 

She  saw  Dick's  car  whirling  towards   her,   whirling 


The  Lane  that  Ran  East  and  West  267 

away  again,  making-  for  distant  Mexico,  where  his 
treasure  lay.  In  the  interval  he  had  found  that  treasure 
and  realized  it.  He  was  now  coming1  back  again.  He 
had  landed  in  England  yesterday. 

Seated  in  her  deck-chair  on  the  veranda,  she  watched 
the  &un  sink  to  the  level  of  the  hazel  trees.  The  last 
swallows  already  flashed  their  dark  wings  against  the 
fading  gold.  Over  that  western  end  to-morrow  or  the 
next  day,  amid  a  cloud  of  whirling  white  dust,  would 
emerge,  again  out  of  nothingness,  the  noisy  car  that 
brought  Dick  Messenger  back  to  her,  back  from  the  Mexi- 
can expedition  that  ensured  his  great  new  riches,  back 
into  her  heart  and  life.  In  the  other  direction  she  would 
depart  a  week  or  so  later,  her  life  in  his  keeping,  and  his 
in  hers  .  .  .  and  the  feet  of  their  children,  in  due 
course,  would  run  up  and  down  the  mysterious  lane  in 
search  of  flowers,  butterflies,  excitement,  in  search  of  life. 

She  wondered  .  .  .  and  as  the  light  faded  her  won- 
dering grew  deeper.  Questions  that  had  lain  dormant  for 
twelve  months  became  audible  suddenly.  Would  Dick  be 
satisfied  with  this  humble  cottage  which  meant  so  much 
to  her  that  she  felt  she  could  never,  never  leave  it? 
Would  not  his  money,  his  new  position,  demand  palaces 
elsewhere?  He  was  ambitious.  Could  his  ambitions  set 
an  altar  of  sacrifice  to  his  love  ?  And  she — could  she,  on 
the  other  hand,  walk  happy  and  satisfied  along  the  western 
curve,  leaving  her  lane  finally  behind  her,  lost,  untravelled, 
forgotten?  Could  she  face  this  sacrifice  for  him?  Was 
he,  in  a  word,  the  man  whose  appearance  out  of  the  sun- 
rise she  had  been  watching  and  waiting  for  all  these 
hurrying,  swift  years? 

She  wondered.  Now  that  the  decisive  moment  was  so 
near,  unhappy  doubts  assailed  her.  Her  wondering  grew 
deeper,  spread,  enveloped,  penetrated  her  being  like  a 
gathering  darkness.  And  the  sun  sank  lower,  dusk  crept 
along  the  hedgerows,  the  flowers  closed  their  little  burning 
eyes.  Shadows  passed  hand  in  hand  along  the  familiar 


268  The  Wolves  of  God 

bend  that  was  so  s'hort,  so  soon  travelled  over  and  left 
behind  that  a  mistake  must  ruin  all  its  sweetest  joy.  To 
wander  down  it  with  a  companion  to  whom  its  flowers,  its 
butterflies,  its  swallows  brought  no  full  message,  must 
turn  it  chill,  dark,  lonely,  colourless.  .  .  .  Her  thoughts 
slipped  on  thus  into  a  soft  inner  reverie  born  of  that 
scented  twilight  hour  of  honeysuckle  and  wild  roses,  born 
too  of  her  deep  self-questioning,  of  wonder,  of  yearning 
unsatisfied. 

The  lane,  meanwhile,  produced  its  customary  few 
figures,  moving  homewards  through  the  dusk.  She  knew 
them  well,  these  familiar  figures  of  the  countryside,  had 
known  them  from  childhood  onwards — labourers,  hedgers, 
ditchers  and  the  like,  with  whom  now,  even  in  her  reverie, 
she  exchanged  the  usual  friendly  greetings  across  the 
wicket-gate.  This  time,  however,  she  gave  but  her  mind 
to  them,  her  heart  absorbed  with  its  own  personal  and 
immediate  problem. 

Melancey  had  come  and  gone ;  old  Averill,  carrying 
his  hedger's  sickle-knife,  had  followed ;  and  she  was 
vaguely  looking  for  Hezekiah  Purdy,  bent  with  years  and 
rheumatism,  his  tea-pail  always  rattling,  his  shuffling  feet 
making  a  sorry  dust,  when  the  figure  she  did  not  quite 
recognize  came  into  view,  emerging  unexpectedly  from  the 
sunrise  end.  Was  it  Purdy?  Yes — no — yet,  if  not,  who 
was  it?  Of  course  it  must  be  Purdy.  Yet  while  the 
others,  being  homeward  bound,  came  naturally  from  west 
to  east,  with  this  new  figure  it  was  otherwise,  so  that  he 
was  half-way  down  the  curve  before  she  fully  realized  him. 
Out  of  the  eastern  end  the  man  drew  nearer,  a  stranger 
therefore ;  out  of  the  unknown  regions  where  the  sun  rose, 
and  where  no  shadows  were,  he  moved  towards  her  down 
the  deserted  lane,  perhaps  a  trespasser,  an  intruder  pos- 
sibly, but  certainly  an  unfamiliar  figure. 

Without  particular  attention  or  interest,  she  watched 
him  drift  nearer  down  her  little  semi-private  lane  of 
dream,  passing*  leisurely  from  east  to  west,  the  mere  fact 


The  Lane  that  Ran  East  and  West  269 

that  he  was  there  establishing  an  intimacy  that  remained 
at  first  unsuspected.  It  was  her  eye  that  watched  him, 
not  her  mind.  What  was  he  doing-  here,  where  going, 
whither  come,  she  wondered  vaguely,  the  lane  both  his 
background  and  his  starting-point  ?  A  little  by-way,  after 
all,  this  haunted  lane.  The  real  world,  she  knew,  swept 
down  the  big  high-road  beyond,  unconscious  of  the  humble 
folk  its  unimportant  tributary  served.  Suddenly  the 
burden  of  the  years  assailed  her.  Had  she,  then,  missed 
life  by  living  here  ? 

Then,  with  a  little  shock,  her  heart  contracted  as  she 
became  aware  of  two  eyes  fixed  upon  her  in  the  dusk. 
The  stranger  had  already  reached  the  wicket-gate  and  now 
stood  leaning  against  it,  staring  at  her  over  its  spiked 
wooden  top.  It  was  certainly  not  old  Purdy.  The  blood 
rushed  back  into  her  heart  again  as  she  returned  the  gaze. 
He  was  watching  her  with  a  curious  intentness,  with  an 
odd  sense  of  authority  almost,  with  something  that  per- 
suaded her  instantly  of  a  definite  purpose  in  his  being 
there.  He  was  waiting  for  her — expecting  her  to  come 
down  and  speak  with  him  as  she  had  spoken  with  the 
others.  Of  this,  her  little  habit,  he  made  use,  she  felt. 
Shyly,  half-nervously,  she  left  her  deck-chair  and  went 
slowly  down  the  short  gravel  path  between  the  flowers, 
noticing  meanwhile  that  his  clothes  were  ragged,  his  hair 
unkempt,  his  face  worn  and  ravaged  as  by  want  and  suf- 
fering, yet  that  his  eyes  were  curiously  young.  His  eyes, 
indeed,  were  full  brown  smiling  eyes,  and  it  was  the  sur- 
prise of  his  youth  that  impressed  her  chiefly.  That  he 
could  be  tramp  or  trespasser  left  her.  She  felt  no  fear. 

She  wished  him  "Good  evening"  in  her  calm,  quiet 
voice,  adding  with  sympathy,  "And  who  are  you,  I  won- 
der? You  want  to  ask  me  something?  "  It  flashed 
across  her  that  his  shabby  clothing  was  somehow  a  dis- 
guise. Over  his  shoulder  hung  a  faded  sack.  "  I  can  do 
something  for  you?  "  she  pursued  inquiringly,  as  was  her 
kindly  custom.  "  If  you  are  hungry,  thirsty,  or — — " 


270  The  Wolves  of  God 

It  was  the  expression  of  vigour  leaping  into  the  deep 
eyes  that  stopped  her.  "If  you  need  clothes,"  she  had 
been  going  to  add.  She  was  not  frightened,  but  suddenly 
she  paused,  gripped  by  a  wonder  she  could  not  understand. 

And  his  first  words  justified  her  wonder.  "7  have 
something  for  you,"  he  said,  his  voice  faint,  a  kind  of 
stillness  in  it  as  though  it  came  through  distance.  Also, 
though  this  she  did  not  notice,  it  was  an  educated  voice, 
and  it  was  the  absence  of  surprise  that  made  this  detail 
too  natural  to  claim  attention.  She  had  expected  it. 
"Something  to  give  you.  I  have  brought  it  for  you,"  the 
man  concluded. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  aware,  again  without  compre- 
hension, that  her  courage  and  her  patience  were  both 
summoned  to  support  her.  "Yes,"  she  repeated  more 
faintly,  as  though  this  was  all  natural,  inevitable, 
expected.  She  saw  that  the  sack  was  now  lifted  from 
his  shoulder  and  that  his  hand  plunged  into  it,  as  it  hung 
apparently  loose  and  empty  against  the  gate.  His  eyes, 
however,  never  for  one  instant  left  her  own.  Alarm,  she 
was  able  to  remind  herself,  she  did  not  feel.  She  only 
recognized  that  this  ragged  figure  laid  something  upon  her 
spirit  she  could  not  fathom,  yet  was  compelled  to  face. 

His  next  words  startled  her.  She  drew,  if  uncon- 
sciously, upon  her  courage  : 

"A  dream." 

The  voice  was  deep,  yet  still  with  the  faintness  as  of 
distance  in  it.  His  hand,  she  saw,  was  moving  slowly 
from  the  empty  sack.  A  strange  attraction,  mingled  with 
pity,  with  yearning  too,  stirred  deeply  in  her.  The  face, 
it  seemed,  turned  soft,  the  eyes  glowed  with  some  inner 
fire  of  feeling.  Her  heart  now  beat  unevenly. 

"Something — to — sell  to  me,"  she  faltered,  aware  that 
his  glowing  eyes  upon  her  made  her  tremble.  The  same 
instant  she  was  ashamed  of  the  words,  knowing  they  were 
uttered  by  a  portion  of  her  that  resisted,  and  that  this  was 
not  the  language  he  deserved. 


The  Lane  that  Ran  East  and  West  271 

He  smiled,  and  she  knew  her  resistance  a  vain  make- 
believe  he  pierced  too  easily,  though  he  let  it  pass  in 
silence. 

"There  is,  I  mean,  a  price — for  every  dream,"  she 
tried  to  save  herself,  conscious  delightfully  that  her  heart 
was  smiling  in  return. 

The  dusk  enveloped  them,  the  corncrakes  were  call- 
ing from  the  fields,  the  scent  of  honeysuckle  and  wild 
roses  lay  round  her  in  a  warm  wave  of  air,  yet  at  the  same 
time  she  felt  as  if  her  naked  soul  stood  side  by  side  with 
this  figure  in  the  infinitude  of  space  beyond  the  sunrise 
end.  The  golden  stars  hung  calm  and  motionless  above 
them. 

"That  price  " — his  answer  fell  like  a  summons  she  had 
actually  expected — "you  pay  to  another,  not  to  me." 
The  voice  grew  fainter,  farther  away,  dropping  through 
empty  space  behind  her.  "All  dreams  are  but  a  single 
dream.  You  pay  that  price  to " 

Her  interruption  slipped  spontaneously  from  her  lips, 
its  inevitable  truth  a  prophecy  : 

"To  myself!  " 

He  smiled  again,  but  this  time  he  did  not  answer. 
His  hand,  instead,  now  moved  across  the  gate  towards 
her. 

And  before  she  quite  realized  what  had  happened,  she 
was  holding  a  little  object  he  had  passed  across  to  her. 
She  had  taken  it,  obeying,  it  seemed,  an  inner  compulsion 
and  authority  which  were  inevitable,  fore-ordained. 
Lowering  her  face  she  examined  it  in  the  dusk — a  small 
green  leaf  of  fern — fingered  it  with  tender  caution  as  it 
lay  in  her  palm,  gazed  for  some  seconds  closely  at  the 
tiny  thing.  .  .  .  When  she  looked  up  again  the 
stranger,  the  "seller  of  dreams,  as  she  now  imagined  him, 
had  moved  some  yards  away  from  the  gate,  and  was 
moving  still,  a  leisurely  quiet  tread  that  stirred  no  dust, 
a  shadowy  outline  soft  with  dusk  and  starlight,  moving 
towards  the  sunrise  end,  whence  he  had  first  appeared. 


272  The  Wolves  of  God 

Her  heart  gave  a  sudden  leap,  as  once  again  the 
burden  of  the  years  assailed  her.  Her  words  seemed 
driven  out :  "Who  are  you?  Before  you  go — your  name  ! 
What  is  your  name?  " 

His  voice,  now  faint  with  distance  as  he  melted  from 
sight  against  the  dark  fringe  of  hazel  trees,  reached  her 
but  indistinctly,  though  its  meaning-  was  somehow  clear  : 

"The  dream,"  she  heard  like  a  breath  of  wind  against 
her  ear,  "  shall  bring  its  own  name  with  it.  I  wait  .  .  ." 
Both  sound  and  figure  trailed  off  into  the  unknown  space 
beyond  the  eastern  end,  and,  leaning  against  the  wicket- 
gate  as  usual,  the  white  dust  settling  about  his  heavy 
boots,  the  tea-pail  but  just  ceased  from  rattling,  was — old 
Purdy. 

Unless  the  mind  can  fix  the  reality  of  an  event  in  the 
actual  instant  of  its  happening,  judgment  soon  dwindles 
into  a  confusion  between  memory  and  argument.  Five 
minutes  later,  when  old  Purdy  had  gone  his  way  again, 
she  found  herself  already  wondering,  reflecting,  question- 
ing. Yearning  had  perhaps  conjured  with  emotion  to 
fashion  both  voice  and  figure  out  of  imagination,  out  of 
this  perfumed  dusk,  out  of  the  troubled  heart's  desire. 
Confusion  in  time  had  further  helped  to  metamorphose 
old  Purdy  into  some  legendary  shape  that  had  stolen  upon 
her  mood  of  reverie  from  the  shadows-  of  her  beloved 
lane.  .  .  .  Yet  the  dream  she  had  accepted  from  a 
stranger  hand,  a  little  fern  leaf,  remained  at  any  rate  to 
shape  a  delightful  certainty  her  brain  might  criticize  while 
her  heart  believed.  The  fern  leaf  assuredly  was  real.  A 
fairy  gift  !  Those  who  eat  of  this  fern-seed,  she  remem- 
bered as  she  sank  into  sleep  that  night,  shall  see  the 
fairies  !  And,  indeed,  a  few  hours  later  she  walked  in 
dream  along  the  familiar  curve  between  the  hedges,  her 
own  childhood  taking  her  by  the  hand  as  she  played  with 
the  flowers,  the  butterflies,  the  glad  swallows  beckoning 
while  they  flashed.  Without  the  smallest  sense  of  surprise 
or  unexpectedness,  too,  she  met  at  the  eastern  end — two 


The  Lane  that  Ran  East  and  West  273 

figures.  They  stood,  as  she  with  her  childhood  stood, 
hand  in  hand,  the  seller  of  dreams  and  her  lover,  waiting 
since  time  began,  she  realized,  waiting  with  some  great 
unuttered  question  on  their  lips.  Neither  addressed  her, 
neither  spoke  a  word.  Dick  looked  at  her,  ambition,  hard 
and  restless,  shining  in  his  eyes ;  in  the  eyes  of  the  other — 
dark,  gentle,  piercing,  but  extraordinarily  young  for  all 
the  ragged  hair  about  the  face,  the  shabby  clothes,  the 
ravaged  and  unkempt  appearance — a  brightness  as  of  the 
coming  dawn. 

A  choice,  she  understood,  was  offered  to  her ;  there 
was  a  decision  she  must  make.  She  realized,  as  though 
some  great  wind  blew  it  into  her  from  outer  space, 
another,  a  new  standard  to  which  her  judgment  must 
inevitably  conform,  or  admit  the  purpose  of  her  life  evaded 
finally.  The  same  moment  she  knew  what  her  decision 
was.  No  hesitation  touched  her.  Calm,  yet  trembling, 
her  courage  and  her  patience  faced  the  decision  and 
accepted  it.  The  hands  then  instantly  fell  apart,  unclasped. 
One  figure  turned  and  vanished  down  the  lane  towards 
the  departing  end,  but  with  the  other,  now  hand  in  hand, 
she  rose  floating,  gliding  without  effort,  a  strange  bliss  in 
her  heart,  to  meet  the  sunrise. 

"He  has  awakened  ...  so  he  cannot  stay,"  she 
heard,  like  a  breath  of  wind  that  whispered  into  her  ear. 
"I,  who  bring  you  this  dream — I  wait." 

She  did  not  wake  at  once  when  the  dream  was  ended, 
but  slept  on  long  beyond  her  accustomed  hour,  missing 
thereby  Melancey,  Averill,  old  Purdy  as  they  passed  the 
wicket-gate  in  the  early  hours.  She  woke,  however,  with 
a  new  clear  knowledge  of  herself,  of  her  mind  and  heart, 
to  all  of  which  in  simple  truth  to  her  own  soul  she  must 
conform.  The  fern-seed  she  placed  in  a  locket  attached  to 
a  fine  gold  chain  about  her  neck.  During  the  long,  lonely, 
expectant  yet  unsatisfied  years  that  followed  she  wore  it 
day  and  night. 


274  The  Wolves  of  God 


She  had  the  curious  feeling  that  she  remained  young. 
Others  grew  older,  but  not  she.  She  watched  her  con- 
temporaries slowly  give  the  signs,  while  she  herself  held 
stationary.  Even  those  younger  than  herself  went  past 
her,  growing  older  in  the  ordinary  way,  whereas  her  heart, 
her  mind,  even  her  appearance,  she  felt  certain,  hardly 
aged  at  all.  In  a  room  full  of  people  she  felt  pity  often 
as  she  read  the  signs  in  their  faces,  knowing  her  own 
unchanged.  Their  eyes  were  burning  out,  but  hers  burned 
on.  It  was  neither  vanity  nor  delusion,  but  an  inner 
conviction  she  could  not  alter. 

The  age  she  held  to  was  the  year  she  had  received  the 
fern-seed  from  old  Purdy,  or,  rather,  from  an  imaginary 
figure  her  reverie  had  set  momentarily  in  old  Purdy 's 
place.  That  figure  of  her  reverie,  the  dream  that  followed, 
the  subsequent  confession  to  Dick  Messenger,  meeting 
his  own  half-way — these  marked  the  year  when  she 
stopped  growing  older.  To  that  year  she  seemed  chained, 
gazing  into  the  sunrise  end — waiting,  ever  waiting. 

Whether  in  her  absent-minded  reverie  she  had  actually 
plucked  the  bit  of  fern  herself,  or  whether,  after  all,  old 
Purdy  had  handed  it  to  her,  was  not  a  point  that  troubled 
her.  It  was  in  her  locket  about  her  neck  still,  day  and 
night.  The  seller  of  dreams  was  an  established  imagina- 
tive reality  in  her  life.  Her  heart  assured  her  she  would 
meet  him  again  one  day.  She  waited.  It  was  very 
curious,  it  was  rather  pathetic.  Men  came  and  went,  she 
saw  her  chances  pass  ;  her  answer  was  invariably  "  No." 

The  break  came  suddenly,  and  with  devastating  effect. 
As  she  was  dressing  carefully  for  the  party,  full  of 
excited  anticipation  like  some  young  girl  still,  she  saw 
looking  out  upon  her  from  the  long  mirror  a  face  of  plain 
middle-age.  A  blackness  rose  about  her.  It  seemed  the 


The  Lane  that  Ran  East  and  West  275 

mirror  shattered.  The  long,  long  dream,  at  any  rate,  fell 
in  a  thousand  broken  pieces  at  her  feet.  It  was  perhaps 
the  ball  dress,  perhaps  the  flowers  in  her  hair ;  it  may  have 
been  the  low-cut  gown  that  betrayed  the  neck  and  throat, 
or  the  one  brilliant  jewel  that  proved  her  eyes  now  dimmed 
beside  it — but  most  probably  it  was  the  tell-tale  hands, 
whose  ageing  no  artifice  ever  can  conceal.  The  middle- 
aged  woman,  at  any  rate,  rushed  from  the  glass  and 
claimed  her. 

It  was  a  long  time,  too,  before  the  signs  of  tears  had 
been  carefully  obliterated  again,  and  the  battle  with  her- 
self— to  go  or  not  to  go — was  decided  by  clear  courage. 
She  would  not  send  a  hurried  excuse  of  illness,  but  would 
take  the  place  where  she  now  belonged.  She  saw  herself, 
a  fading  figure,  more  than  half-way  now  towards  the 
sunset  end,  within  sight  even  of  the  shadowed  emptiness 
that  lay  beyond  the  sun's  dipping  edge.  She  had  lingered 
over-lo'ng,  expecting  a  dream  to  confirm  a  dream ;  she  had 
been  oblivious  of  the  truth  that  the  lane  went  rushing  just 
the  same.  It  was  now  too  late.  The  speed  increased. 
She  had  waited,  waited  for  nothing.  The  seller  of  dreams 
was  a  myth.  No  man  could  need  her  as  she  now  was. 

Yet  the  chief  ingredient  in  her  decision  was,  oddly 
enough,  itself  a  sign  of  youth.  A  party,  a  ball,  is  ever 
an  adventure.  Fate,  with  her  destined  eyes  aglow,  may 
be  bidden  too,  waiting  among  the  throng,  waiting  for  that 
very  one  who  hesitates  whether  to  go  or  not  to  go.  Who 
knows  what  the  evening  may  bring  forth?  It  was  this 
anticipation,  faintly  beckoning,  its  voice  the  merest  echo 
of  her  shadowy  youth,  that  tipped  the  scales  between  an 
evening  of  sleepless  regrets  at  home  and  hours  of 
neglected  loneliness,  watching  the  young  fulfil  the  happy 
night.  This  and  her  courage  weighed  the  balance 
down  against  the  afflicting  weariness  of  her  sudden 
disillusion. 

Therefore  she  went,  her  aunt,  in  whose  house  she  was 
a  visitor,  accompanying  her.  They  arrived  late,  walking 


276  The  Wolves  of  God 

under  the  awning-  alone  into  the  great  mansion.  Music, 
flowers,  lovely  dresses,  and  bright  happy  faces  filled  the 
air  about  them.  The  dancing  feet,  the  flashing  eyes,  the 
swing  of  the  music,  the  throng  of  graceful  figures  ex- 
pressed one  word — pleasure.  Pleasure,  of  course,  meant 
youth.  Beneath  the  calm  summer  stars  youth  realized 
itself  prodigally,  reckless  of  years  to  follow.  Under  the 
same  calm  stars,  some  fifty  miles  away  in  Kent,  her 
stretch  of  deserted  lane  flowed  peacefully,  never  pausing, 
passing  relentlessly  out  into  unknown  space  beyond  the 
edge  of  the  world.  A  girl  and  a  middle-aged  woman 
bravely  watched  both  scenes. 

"Dreadfully  overcrowded,"  remarked  her  prosaic  aunt. 
"When  I  was  a  young  thing  there  was  more  taste — 
always  room  to  dance,  at  any  rate." 

"  It  is  a  rabble  rather,"  replied  the  middle-aged  woman, 
while  the  girl  added,  "but  I  enjoy  it."  She  had  enjoyed 
one  duty-dance  with  an  elderly  man  to  whom  her  aunt  had 
introduced  her.  She  now  sat  watching  the  rabble  whirl 
and  laugh.  Her  friend,  behind  unabashed  lorgnettes, 
made  occasional  comments. 

"There's  Mabel.  Look  at  her  frock,  will  you — the 
naked  back.  The  way  he  holds  her,  too  !  " 

She  looked  at  Mabel  Messenger,  exactly  her  own  age, 
wife  of  the  successful  engineer,  yet  bearing  herself  almost 
like  a  girl. 

"He's  away  in  Mexico  as  usual,"  went  on  her  aunt, 
"with  somebody  else,  also  as  usual." 

"I  don't  envy  her,"  mentioned  the  middle-aged  woman, 
while  the  girl  added,  "but  she  did  well  for  herself, 
anyhow." 

"It's  a  mistake  to  wait  too  long,"  was  a  suggestion 
she  did  not  comment  on. 

The  host's  brother  came  up  and  carried  off  her  aunt. 
She  was  left  alone.  An  old  gentleman  dropped  into  the 
vacated  chair.  Only  in  the  centre  of  the  brilliantly  lit 
room  was  there  dancing  now ;  people  stood  and  talked  in 


The  Lane  that  Ran  East  and  West  277 

animated  throngs,  every  seat  along  the  walls,  every  chair 
and  sofa  in  alcove  corners  occupied.  The  landing  outside 
the  great  flung  doors  was  packed ;  some,  going-  on  else- 
where, were  already  leaving,  but  others  arriving  late  still 
poured  up  the  staircase.  Her  loneliness  remained  un- 
noticed ;  with  many  other  women,  similarly  stationed 
behind  the  whirling,  moving  dancers,  she  sat  looking  on, 
an  artificial  smile  of  enjoyment  upon  her  face,  but  the 
eyes  empty  and  unlit. 

Two  pictures  she  watched  simultaneously — the  gay 
ballroom  and  the  lane  that  ran  east  and  west. 

Midnight  was  past  and  supper  over,  though  she  had 
not  noticed  it.  Her  aunt  had  disappeared  finally,  it 
seemed.  The  two  pictures  filled  her  mind,  absorbed  her. 
What  she  was  feeling  was  not  clear,  for  there  was  con- 
fusion in  her  between  the  two  scenes  somewhere — as 
though  the  brilliant  ballroom  lay  set  against  the  dark 
background  of  the  lane  beneath  the  quiet  stars.  The 
contrast  struck  her.  How  calm  and  lovely  the  night  lane 
seemed  against  this  feverish  gaiety,  this  heat,  this 
artificial  perfume,  these  exaggerated  clothes.  Like  a 
small,  rapid  cinema-picture  the  dazzling  ballroom  passed 
along  the  dark  throat  of  the  deserted  lane.  A  patch  of 
light,  alive  with  whirling  animalculae,  it  shone  a  moment 
against  the  velvet  background  of  the  midnight  country- 
side. It  grew  smaller  and  smaller.  It  vanished  over  the 
edge  of  the  departing  end.  It  was  gone. 

Night  and  the  stars  enveloped  her,  and  her  eyes  became 
accustomed  to  the  change,  so  that  she  saw  the  sandy  strip 
of  lane,  the  hazel  bushes,  the  dim  outline  of  the  cottage. 
Her  naked  soul,  it  seemed  again,  stood  facing  an  infini- 
tude. Yet  the  scent  of  roses,  of  dew-soaked  grass  came 
to  her.  A  blackbird  was  whistling  in  the  hedge.  The 
eastern  end  showed  itself  now  more  plainly.  The  tops  of 
the  trees  defined  themselves.  There  came  a  glimmer  in 
the  sky,  an  early  swallow  flashed  past  against  a  streak  of 
pale  sweet  gold.  Old  Purdy,  his  tea-pail  faintly  rattling, 


278  The  Wolves  of  God 

a  stir  of  thick  white  dust  about  his  feet,  came  slowly 
round  the  curve.  It  was  the  sunrise. 

A  deep,  passionate  thrill  ran  through  her  body  from 
head  to  feet.  There  was  a  clap  beside  her — in  the  air  it 
seemed — as  though  the  wings  of  the  early  swallow  had 
flashed  past  her  very  ear,  or  the  approaching  sunrise 
called  aloud.  She  turned  her  head — along  the  brighten- 
ing lane,  but  also  across  the  gay  ballroom.  Old  Purdy, 
straightening  up  his  bent  shoulders,  was  gazing  over  the 
wicket-gate  into  her  eyes. 

Something  quivered.  A  shimmer  ran  fluttering  before 
her  sight.  She  trembled.  Over  the  crowd  of  intervening 
heads,  as  over  the  spiked  top  of  the  little  gate,  a  man  was 
gazing  at  her. 

Old  Purdy,  however,  did  not  fade,  nor  did  his  outline 
wholly  pass.  There  was  this  confusion  between  two  pic- 
tures. Yet  this  man  who  gazed  at  her  was  in  the  London 
ballroom.  He  was  so  tall  and  straight.  The  same 
moment  her  aunt's  face  appeared  below  his  shoulder,  only 
just  visible,  and  he  turned  his  head,  but  did  not  turn  his 
eyes,  to  listen  to  her.  Both  looked  her  way ;  they  moved, 
threading  their  way  towards  her.  It  meant  an  intro- 
duction coming.  He  had  asked  for  it. 

She  did  not  catch  his  name,  so  quickly,  yet  so  easily 
and  naturally,  the  little  formalities  were  managed,  and 
she  was  dancing.  The  same  sweet,  dim  confusion  was 
about  her.  His  touch,  his  voice,  his  eyes  combined 
extraordinarily  in  a  sense  of  complete  possession  to  which 
she  yielded  utterly.  The  two  pictures,  moreover,  still  held 
their  place.  Behind  the  glaring  lights  ran  the  pale  sweet 
gold  of  a  country  dawn ;  woven  like  a  silver  thread  among 
the  strings  she  heard  the  blackbirds  whistling;  in  the 
stale,  heated  air  lay  the  subtle  freshness  of  a  summer 
sunrise.  Their  dancing  feet  bore  them  along  in  a  flowing 
motion  that  curved  from  east  to  west. 

They  danced  without  speaking ;  one  rhythm  took  them  ; 
like  a  single  person  they  glided  over  the  smooth,  perfect 


The  Lane  that  Ran  East  and  West  279 

floor,  and,  more  .and  more  to  her,  it  was  as  if  the  floor 
flowed  with  them,  bearing  them  along.  Such  dancing  she 
had  never  known.  The  strange  sweetness  of  the  con- 
fusion that  half-entranced  her  increased — almost  as 
though  she  lay  upon  her  partner's  arms  and  that  he  bore 
her  through  the  air.  Both  the  sense  of  weight  and  the 
touch  of  her  feet  on  solid  ground  were  gone  delightfully. 
The  London  room  grew  hazy,  too  ;  the  other  figures  faded  ; 
the  ceiling,  half-transparent,  let  through  a  filtering* 
glimmer  of  the  dawn.  Her  thoughts — surely  he  shared 
them  with  her — went  out  floating  beneath  this  brightening 
sky.  There  was  a  sound  of  wakening  birds,  a  smell  of 
flowers. 

They  had  danced  perhaps  five  minutes  when  both 
stopped  abruptly  as  with  one  accord. 

"Shall  we  sit  it  out — if  you've  no  objection?  "  he  sug- 
gested in  the  very  instant  that  the  same  thought  occurred 
to  her.  "The  conservatory,  among  the  flowers,"  he 
added,  leading  her  to  the  corner  among  scented  blooms 
and  plants,  exactly  as  she  herself  desired.  There  were 
leaves  and  ferns  about  them  in  the  warm  air.  The  light 
was  dim.  A  streak  of  gold  in  the  sky  showed  through  the 
glass.  But  for  one  other  couple  they  were  alone. 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  he  began.  "You 
must  have  thought  it  curious — I've  been  staring  at  you 
so.  The  whole  evening  I've  been  watching  you." 

"I — hadn't  noticed,"  she  said  truthfully,  her  voice,  as 
it  were,  not  quite  her  own.  "I've  not  been  dancing — 
only  once,  that  is." 

But  her  heart  was  dancing  as  she  said  it.  For  the  first 
time  she  became  aware  of  her  partner  more  distinctly — 
of  his  deep,  resonant  voice,  his  soldierly  tall  figure,  his 
deferential,  almost  protective  manner.  She  turned  sud- 
denly and  looked  into  his  face.  The  clear,  rather 
penetrating  eyes  reminded  her  of  someone  she  had 
known. 

At  the  same  instant  he  used  her  thought,  turning-  it  in 


28o  The  Wolves  of  God 

his  own  direction.  "I  can't  remember,  for  the  life  of 
me,"  he  said  quietly,  "where  I  have  seen  you  before. 
Your  face  is  familiar  to  me,  oddly  familiar — years  ago — in 
my  first  youth  somewhere." 

It  was  as  though  he  broke  something  to  her  gently — 
something  he  was  sure  of  and  knew  positively,  that  yet 
might  shock  and  startle  her. 

The  blood  rushed  from  her  heart  as  she  quickly  turned 
her  gaze  away.  The  wave  of  deep  feeling  that  rose  with 
a  sensation  of  glowing  warmth  troubled  her  voice.  "  I 
find  in  you,  too,  a  faint  resemblance  to — someone  I  have 
met,"  she  murmured.  Without  meaning  it  she  let  slip  the 
added  words,  "when  I  was  a  girl." 

She  felt  him  start,  but  he  saved  the  situation,  making 
it  ordinary  again  by  obtaining  her  permission  to  smoke, 
then  slowly  lighting  his  cigarette  before  he  spoke. 

"You  must  forgive  me,"  he  put  in  with  a  smile,  "but 
your  name,  when  you  were  kind  enough  to  let  me  be 
introduced,  escaped  me.  I  did  not  catch  it." 

She  told  him  her  surname,  but  he  asked  in  his  per- 
suasive yet  somehow  masterful  way  for  the  Christian 
name  as  well.  He  turned  round  instantly  as  she  gave  it, 
staring  hard  at  her  with  meaning,  with  an  examining 
intentness,  with  open  curiosity.  There  was  a  question  on 
his  lips,  but  she  interrupted,  delaying  it  by  a  question  of 
her  own.  Without  looking  at  him  she  knew  and  feared 
his  question.  Her  voice  just  concealed  a  trembling  that 
was  in  her  throat. 

"My  aunt,"  she  agreed  lightly,  "is  incorrigible.  Do 
you  know  I  didn't  catch  yours  either?  Oh — I  meant 
your  surname,"  she  added,  confusion  gaining  upon  her 
when  he  mentioned  his  first  name  only. 

He  became  suddenly  more  earnest,  his  voice  deepened, 
his  whole  manner  took  on  the  guise  of  deliberate  intention 
backed  by  some  profound  emotion  that  he  could  no  longer 
hide.  The  music,  which  had  momentarily  ceased,  began 
again,  and  a  couple,  who  had  been  sitting  out  diagonally 


The  Lane  that  Ran  East  and  West  281 

across  from  them,   rose  and  went  out.     They  were  now 
quite  alone.     The  sky  was  brighter. 

"I  must  tell  you,"  he  went  on  in  a  way  that  compelled 
her  to  look  up  and  meet  his  intent  gaze.  "You  really 
must  allow  me.  I  feel  sure  somehow  you'll  understand. 
At  any  rate,"  he  added  like  a  boy,  "you  won't  laugh." 

She  believes  she  gave  the  permission  and  assurance. 
Memory  fails  her  a  little  here,  for  as  she  returned  his 
gaze,  it  seemed  a  curious  change  came  stealing  over  him, 
yet  at  first  so  imperceptibly,  so  vaguely,  that  she  could  not 
say  when  it  began,  nor  how  it  happened. 

"Yes,"    she   murmured,    "please "     The    change 

defined  itself.     She  stopped  dead. 

"I  know  now  where  I've  seen  you  before.  I  remem- 
ber." His  voice  vibrated  like  a  wind  in  big  trees.  It 
enveloped  her. 

"Yes,"  she  repeated  in  a  whisper,  for  the  hammering 
of  her  heart  made  both  a  louder  tone  or  further  words 
impossible.  She  knew  not  what  he  was  going  to  say,  yet 
at  the  same  time  she  knew  with  accuracy.  Her  eyes 
gazed  helplessly  into  his.  The  change  absorbed  her. 
Within  his  outline  she  watched  another  outline  grow. 
Behind  the  immaculate  evening  clothes  a  ragged,  unkempt 
figure  rose.  A  worn,  ravaged  face  with  young  burning 
eyes  peered  through  his  own.  "Please,  please,"  she 
whispered  again  very  faintly.  He  took  her  hand 
in  his. 

His  voice  came  from  very  far  away,  yet  drawing 
nearer,  and  the  scene  about  them  faded,  vanished.  The 
lane  that  curved  east  and  west  now  stretched  behind  him, 
and  she  sat  gazing  towards  the  sunrise  end,  as  years  ago 
when  the  girl  passed  into  the  woman  first. 

"I  knew — a  friend  of  yours — Dick  Messenger,"  he 
was  saying  in  this  distant  voice  that  yet  was  close  beside 
her,  "knew  him  at  school,  at  Cambridge,  and  later  in 
Mexico.  We  worked  in  the  same  mines  together,  only 
he  was  contractor  and  I  was — in  difficulties.  That  made 
S 


282  The  Wolves  of  God 

no  difference.  He— he  told  me  about  a  girl — of  his  love 
and  admiration,  an  admiration  that  remained,  but  a  love 
that  had  already  faded." 

She  saw  only  the  ragged  outline  within  the  well- 
groomed  figure  of  the  man  who  spoke.  The  young  eyes 
that  gazed  so  piercingly  into  hers  belonged  to  him,  the 
seller  of  her  dream  of  years  before.  It  was  to  this  ragged 
stranger  in  her  lane  she  made  her  answer  : 

"I,  too,  now  remember,"  she  said  softly.  "Please 
go  on." 

"He  gave  me  his  confidence,  asking  me  where  his 
duty  lay,  and  I  told  him  that  the  real  love  comes 
once  only ;  it  knows  no  doubt,  no  fading.  I  told  him 
this " 

"We  both  discovered  it  in  time,"  she  said  to  herself, 
so  low  it  was  scarcely  audible,  yet  not  resisting  as  he  laid 
his  other  hand  upon  the  one  he  already  held. 

"I  also  told  him  there  was  only  one  true  dream,"  the 
voice  continued,  the  inner  face  drawing  nearer  to  the 
outer  that  contained  it.  "  I  asked  him,  and  he  told  me — 
everything.  I  knew  all  about  this  girl.  Her  picture, 
too,  he  showed  me." 

The  voice  broke  off.  The  flood  of  love  and  pity,  of 
sympathy  and  understanding  that  rose  in  her  like  a  power 
long  suppressed,  threatened  tears,  yet  happy,  yearning 
tears  like  those  of  a  girl,  which  only  the  quick,  strong 
pressure  of  his  hands  prevented. 

"The— little  painting — yes,  I  know  it,"  she  faltered. 

"It  saved  me,"  he  said  simply.  "It  changed  my  life. 
From  that  moment  I  began — living  decently  again — living 
for  an  ideal."  Without  knowing  that  she  did  so,  the 
pressure  of  her  hand  upon  his  own  came  instantly.  "He 
— he  gave  it  to  me,"  the  voice  went  on,  "to  keep.  He 
said  he  could  neither  keep  it  himself  nor  destroy  it.  It 
was  the  day  before  he  sailed.  I  remember  it  as  yester- 
day. I  said  I  must  give  him  something  in  return,  or  it 
would  cut  friendship.  But  I  had  nothing  in  the  world  to 


The  Lane  that  Ran  East  and  West  283 

give.  We  were  in  the  hills.  I  picked  a  leaf  of  fern 
instead.  '  Fern-seed,'  I  told  him,  *  it  will  make  you  see 
the  fairies  and  find  your  true  dream.'  I  remember  his 
laugh  to  this  day — a  sad,  uneasy  laugh.  '  I  shall  give  it 
to  her, '  he  told  me,  *  when  I  give  her  my  difficult 
explanation.'  But  I  said,  *  Give  it  with  my  love,  and  tell 
her  that  I  wait.'  He  looked  at  me  with  surprise, 
incredulous.  Then  he  said  slowly,  '  Why  not?  If — if 
only  you  Eadn't  let  yourself  go  to  pieces  like  this  !  '  " 

An  immensity  of  clear  emotion  she  could  not  under- 
stand passed  over  her  in  a  wave.  Involuntarily  she  moved 
closer  against  him.  With  her  eyes  unflinchingly  upon  his 
own,  she  whispered:  "You  were  hungry,  thirsty,  you 
had  no  clothes.  .  .  .  You  waited  !  " 

"You're  reading  my  thoughts,  as  I  knew  one  day  you 
would."  It  seemed  as  if  their  minds,  their  bodies  too, 
were  one,  as  he  said  the  words.  "You,  too — you  waited." 
His  voice  was  low. 

There  came  a  glow  between  them  as  of  hidden  fire ; 
their  faces  shone ;  there  was  a  brightening  as  of  dawn 
upon  their  skins,  within  their  eyes,  lighting  their  very 
hair.  Out  of  this  happy  sky  his  voice  floated  to  her  with 
the  blackbird's  song : 

"And  that  night  I  dreamed  of  you.  I  dreamed  I  met 
you  in  an  English  country  lane." 

"We  did,"  she  murmured,  as  though  it  were  quite 
natural. 

"  I  dreamed  I  gave  you  the  fern  leaf — across  a  wicket- 
gate — and  in  front  of  a  little  house  that  was  our  home. 
In  my  dream — I  handed  to  you — a  dream " 

"You  did."  And  as  she  whispered  it  the  two  figures 
merged  into  one  before  her  very  eyes.  "See,"  she  added 
softly,  "  I  have  it  still.  It  is  in  my  locket  at  this  moment, 
for  I  have  worn  it  day  and  night  through  all  these  years 
of  waiting."  She  began  fumbling  at  her  chain. 

He  smiled.  "Such  things,"  he  said  gently,  "are 
beyond  me  rather.  I  have  found  you.  That's  all  that 


284  The  Wolves  of  God 

matters.  That" — he  smiled  again — "is  real,  at  any 
rate." 

"A  vision,"  she  murmured,  half  to  herself  and  half  to 
him,  "  I  can  understand.  A  dream,  though  wonderful,  is 
a  dream.  But  the  little  fern  you  gave  me,"  drawing  the 
fine  gold  chair\  from  her  bosom,  "the  actual  leaf  I  have 
worn  all  these  years  in  my  locket  !  " 

He  smiled  as  she  held  the  locket  out  to  him,  her 
fingers  feeling  for  the  little  spring.  He  shook  his  head, 
but  so  slightly  she  did  not  notice  it. 

"I  will  prove  it  to  you,"  she  said.  "I  must. 
Look  !  "  she  cried,  as  with  trembling  hand  she  pressed 
the  hidden  catch.  "There  !  There  !  " 

With,  heads  close  together  they  bent  over.  The  tiny 
lid  flew  open.  And  as  he  took  her  for  one  quick  instant 
in  his  arms  the  sun  flashed  his  first  golden  shaft  upon 
them,  covering  them  with  light.  But  her  exclamation  of 
incredulous  surprise  he  smothered  with  a  kiss.  For 
inside  the  little  locket  there  lay — nothing.  It  was  quite 
empty. 


XV 

"VENGEANCE  IS  MINE" 

(By  Algernon  Blackwood) 


AN  active,  vigorous  man  in  Holy  Orders,  yet  compelled 
by  heart  trouble  to  resign  a  living  in  Kent  before  full 
middle  age,  he  had  found  suitable  work  with  the  Red 
Cross  in  France;  and  it  rather  pleased  a  strain  of  inno- 
cent vanity  in  him  that  Rouen,  whence  he  derived  his 
Norman  blood,  should  be  the  scene  of  his  activities. 

He  was  a  gentle-minded  soul,  a  man  deeply  read  and 
thoughtful,  but  goodness  perhaps  his  out-standing  quality, 
believing  no  evil  of  others.  He  had  been  slow,  for 
instance,  at  first  to  credit  the  German  atrocities,  until  the 
evidence  had  compelled  him  to  face  the  appalling  facts. 
Witl\  acceptance,  then,  he  had  experienced  a  revulsion 
which  other  gentle  minds  have  probably  also  experienced 
— a  burning  desire,  namely,  that  the  perpetrators  should 
be  fitly  punished. 

This  primitive  instinct  of  revenge — he  called  it  a  lust 
— he  sternly  repressed;  it  involved  a  descent  to  lower 
levels  of  conduct  irreconcilable  with  the  progress  of  the 
race  he  so  passionately  believed  in.  Revenge  pertained 
to  savage  days.  But,  though  he  hid  away  the  instinct 
in  his  heart,  afraid  of  its  clamour  and  persistency,  it  re- 
vived from  time  to  time,  as  fresh  horrors  made  it  bleed 
anew.  It  remained  alive,  unsatisfied ;  while,  with  its 
analysis,  his  mind  strove  unconsciously.  That  an  intellec- 
tual nation  should  deliberately  include  frightfulness  as  a 

285 


286  The  Wolves  of  God 

chief  item  in  its  creed  perplexed  him  horribly;  it  seemed 
to  him  conscious  spiritual  evil  openly  affirmed.  Some 
genuine  worship  of  Odin,  Wotan,  Moloch  lay  still  em- 
bedded in  the  German  outlook,  and  beneath  the  veneer 
of  their  pretentious  culture.  He  often  wondered,  too, 
what  eifect  the  recognition  of  these  horrors  must  have 
upon  gentle  minds  in  other  men,  and  especially  upon 
imaginative  minds.  How  did  they  deal  with  the  fact  that 
this  appalling  thing  existed  in  human  nature  in  the 
twentieth  century?  Its  survival,  indeed,  caused  his  belief 
in  civilization  as  a  whole  to  waver.  Was  progress,  his 
pet  ideal  and  cherished  faith,  after  all  a  mockery?  Had 
human  nature  not  advanced  .  .  .  ? 

His  work  in  the  great  hospitals  and  convalescent 
camps  beyond  the  town  was  tiring;  he  found  little  time 
for  recreation,  much  less  for  rest ;  a  light  dinner  and  bed 
by  ten  o'clock  was  the  usual  way  of  spending  his  evenings. 
He  had  no  social  intercourse,  for  everyone  else  was  as 
busy  as  himself.  The  enforced  solitude,  not  quite  whole- 
some, was  unavoidable.  He  found  no  outlet  fof  his 
thoughts.  First-hand  acquaintance  with  suffering,  phy- 
sical and  mental,  was  no  new  thing  to  him,  but  this  close 
familiarity,  day  by  day,  with  maimed  and  broken 
humanity  preyed  considerably  on  his  mind,  while  the 
fortitude  and  cheerfulness  shown  by  the  victims  deepened 
the  impression  of  respectful,  yearning  wonder  made  upon 
him.  They  were  so  young,  so  fine  and  careless,  these 
lads  whom  the  German  lust  for  power  had  robbed  of 
limbs,  and  eyes,  of  mind,  of  life  itself.  The  sense  of 
horror  grew  in  him  with  cumulative  but  unrelieved  effect. 

With  the  lengthening  of  the  days  in  February,  and 
especially  when  March  saw  the  welcome  change  to  summer 
time,  the  natural  desire  for  open  air  asserted  itself. 
Instead  of  retiring  early  to  his  dingy  bedroom,  he  would 
stroll  out  after  dinner  through  the  ancient  streets.  WThen 
the  air  was  not  too  chilly,  he  would  prolong  these  out- 
ings, starting  at  sunset  and  coming  home  beneath  the 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"          287 

bright  mysterious  stars.  He  knew  at  length  every  turn 
and  winding  of  the  old-world  alleys,  every  gable,  every 
tower  and  spire,  from  the  Vieux  March6,  where  Joan  of 
Arc  was  burnt,  to  the  busy  quays,  thronged  now  with 
soldiers  from  half  a  dozen  countries.  He  wandered  on 
past  grey  gateways  of  crumbling  stone  that  marked  the 
former  banks  of  the  old  tidal  river.  An  English  army, 
five  centuries  ago,  had  camped  here  among  reeds  and 
swamps,  besieging  the  Norman  capital,  where  now  they 
brought  in  supplies  of  men  and  material  upon  modern 
docks,  a  mighty  invasion  of  a  very  different  kind. 
Imaginative  reflection  was  his  constant  mood. 

But  it  was  the  haunted  streets  that  touched  him  most, 
stirring  some  chord  his  ancestry  had  planted  in  him.  The 
forest  of  spires  thronged  the  air  with  strange  stone 
flowers,  silvered  by  moonlight  as  thoug'h  white  fire 
streamed  from  branch  and  petal;  the  old  church  towers 
soared ;  the  cathedral  touched  the  stars.  After  dark  the 
modern  note,  paramount  in  the  daylight,  seemed  hushed; 
with  sunset  it  underwent  a  definite  night-change.  Although 
the  darkened  streets  kept  alive  in  him  the  menace  of  fire 
and  death,  the  crowding  soldiers,  dipped  to  the  face  in 
shadow,  seemed  somehow  negligible ;  the  leaning  roofs 
and  gables  hid  them  in  a  purple  sea  of  mist  that  blurred 
their  modern  garb,  steel  weapons,  and  the  like.  Shadows 
themselves,  they  entered  the  being  of  the  town ;  their 
feet  moved  silently;  there  was  a  hush  and  murmur;  the 
brooding  buildings  absorbed  them  easily. 

Ancient  and  modern,  that  is,  unable  successfully  to 
mingle,  let  fall  grotesque,  incongruous  shadows  on  his 
thoughts.  The  spirit  of  mediaeval  days  stole  over  him, 
exercising  its  inevitable  sway  upon  a  temperament  already 
predisposed  to  welcome  it.  Witchcraft  and  wonder,  pagan 
superstition  and  speculation,  combined  with  an  ancestral 
tendency  to  weave  a  spell,  half  of  acceptance,  half  of 
shrinking,  about  his  imaginative  soul  in  which  poetry  and 
logic  seemed  otherwise  fairly  balanced.  Too  weary  for 


288  The  Wolves  of  God 

critical  judgment  to  discern  clear  outlines,  his  mind, 
during  these  magical  twilight  walks,  became  the  play- 
ground of  opposing  forces,  some  power  of  dreaming,  it 
seems,  too  easily  in  the  ascendant.  The  soul  of  ancient 
Rouen,  stealing  beside  his  footsteps  in  the  dusk,  put 
forth  a  shadowy  hand  and  touched  him. 

This  shadowy  spell  he  denied  as  far  as  in  him  lay, 
though  the  resistance  offered  by  reason  to  instinct  lacked 
true  driving  power.  The  dice  were  loaded  otherwise  in 
such  a  soul.  His  own  blood  harked  back  unconsciously 
to  the  days  when  men  were  tortured,  broken  on  the  wheel, 
walled  up  alive,  and  burnt  for  small  offences.  This 
shadowy  hand  stirred  faint  ancestral  memories  in  him, 
part  instinct,  part  desire.  The  next  step,  by  which  he 
saw  a  similar  attitude  flowering  full  blown  in  the  German 
frightfulness,  was  too  easily  made  to  be  rejected.  The 
German  horrors  made  him  believe  that  this  ignorant 
cruelty  of  olden  days  threatened  the  world  now  in  a 
modern,  organized  shape  that  proved  its  survival  in  the 
human  heart.  Shuddering,  he  fought  against  the  natural 
desire  for  adequate  punishment,  but  forgot  that  repressed 
emotions  sooner  or  later  must  assert  themselves.  Essen- 
tially irrepressible,  they  may  force  an  outlet  in  distorted 
fashion.  He  hardly  recognized,  perhaps,  their  actual 
claim,  yet  it  was  audible  occasionally.  For,  owing  to  his 
loneliness,  the  natural  outlet,  in  talk  and  intercourse,  was 
denied. 

Then,  with  the  softer  winds,  he  yearned  for  country 
air.  The  sweet  spring  days  had  come ;  morning  and  even- 
ing were  divine ;  above  the  town  the  orchards  were  in 
bloom.  Birds  blew  their  tiny  bugles  on  the  hills.  The 
midday  sun  began  to  burn. 

It  was  the  time  of  the  final  violence,  when  the  German 
hordes  flung  like  driven  cattle  against  the  Western  line 
where  free  men  fought  for  liberty.  Fate  hovered  dread- 
fully in  the  balance  that  spring  of  1918;  Amiens  was 
threatened,  and  if  Amiens  fell,  Rouen  must  be  evacuated. 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"          289 

The  town,  already  full,  became  now  over-full.  On  his 
way  home  one  evening  he  passed  the  station,  crowded 
with  homeless  new  arrivals.  "Got  the  wind  up,  it  seems, 
in  Amiens  !  "  cried  a  cheery  voice,  as  an  officer  he  knew 
went  by  him  hurriedly.  And  as  he  heard  it  the  mood 
of  the  spring  became  of  a  sudden  uppermost.  He  reached 
a  decision.  The  German  horror  came  abruptly  closer. 
This  further  overcrowding  of  the  narrow  streets  was 
more  than  he  could  face. 

It  was  a  small,  personal  decision  merely,  but  he  must 
get  out  among  woods  and  fields,  among  flowers  and 
wholesome,  growing  things,  taste  simple,  innocent  life 
again.  The  following  evening  he  would  pack  his  haver- 
sack with  food  and  tramp  the  four  miles  to  the  great 
Foret  Verte — delicious  name  ! — and  spend  the  night  with 
trees  and  stars,  breathing  his  full  of  sweetness,  calm 
and  peace.  He  was  too  accustomed  to  the  thunder  of 
the  guns  to  be  disturbed  by  it.  The  song  of  a  thrush, 
the  whistle  of  a  blackbird,  would  easily  drown  that.  He 
made  his  plan  accordingly. 

The  next  two  nights,  however,  a  warm  soft  rain 
was  falling;  only  on  the  third  evening  could  he  put  his 
little  plan  into  execution.  Anticipatory  enjoyment,  mean- 
while, lightened  his  heart;  he  did  his  daily  work  more 
competently,  the  spell  of  the  ancient  city  weakened  some- 
what. The  shadowy  hand  withdrew. 


C) 


Meanwhile,    a  curious  adventure  intervened. 

His  good  and  simple  heart,  disciplined  (these  many 
years  in  the  way  a  man  should  walk,  received,  upon  its 
imaginative  side,  a  stimulus  that,  in  his  case,  amounted 
to  a  shock.  That  a  strange  and  comely  woman  should 
make  eyes  at  him  disturbed  his  equilibrium  considerably ; 
that  he  should  enjoy  the  attack,  though  without  at  first 


290  The  Wolves  of  God 

responding  openly-r^ven  without  full  comprehension  of 
its  meaning — disturbed  it  even  more.  It  was,  moreover, 
no  ordinary  attack. 

He  saw  her  first  the  night  after  his  decision  when, 
in  a  mood  of  disappointment  due  to.  the  rain,  he  came 
down  to  his  lonely  dinner.  The  room,  he  saw,  was 
crowded  with  new  arrivals,  from  Amiens,  doubtless,  where 
they  had  "the  wind  up."  The  wealthier  civilians  had  fled 
for  safety  to  Rouen.  These  interested  and,  in  a  measure, 
stimulated  him.  He  looked  at  them  sympathetically, 
wondering  what  dear  home-life  they  had  so  hurriedly 
relinquished  at  the  near  thunder  of  the  enemy  guns, 
and,  in  so  doing,  he  noticed,  sitting  alone  at  a  small 
table  just  in  front  of  his  own — yet  with  her  back  to  him — • 
a  woman. 

She  drew  his  attention  instantly.  The  first  glance 
told  him  that  she  was  young  and  well-to-do;  the  second, 
that  she  was  unusual.  What  precisely  made  her  unusual 
he  could  not  say,  although  he  at  once  began  to  study 
her  intently.  Dignity,  atmosphere,  personality,  he  per- 
ceived beyond  all  question.  She  sat  there  with  an  air. 
The  becoming  little  hat  with  its  challenging  feather 
slightly  tilted,  the  set  of  the  shoulders,  the  neat  waist 
and  slender  outline ;  possibly,  too,  the  hair  about  the 
neck,  and  the  faint  perfume  that  was  wafted  towards 
him  as  the  serving  girl  swept  past,  combined  in  the  per- 
suasion. Yet  he  felt  it  as  more  than  a  persuasion.  She 
attracted  him  with  a  subtle  vehemence  he  had  never  felt 
before.  The  instant  he  set  eyes  upon  her  his  blood  ran 
„  faster.  The  thought  rose  passionately  in  him,  almost  the 
"  words  that  phrased  it  :  "I  wish  I  knew  her." 

This  sudden  flash  of  response  his  whole  being  certainly 
gave — to  the  back  of  an  unknown  woman.  It  was  both 
vehement  and  instinctive.  He  lay  stress  upon  its  in- 
stinctive character :  he  was  aware  of  it  before  reason 
told  him  why.  That  it  was  "  in  response  "  he  also  noted, 
for  although  he  had  not  seen  her  face  and  she  assuredly 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"          291 

had  made  no  sign,  he  felt  that  attraction  which  involves 
also  invitation.  So  vehement,  moreover,  was  this  re- 
sponse in  him  that  he  felt  shy  and  ashamed  the  same 
instant,  for  it  almost  seemed  he  had  expressed  his  thought 
in  audible  words.  He  flushed,  and  the  flush  ran  through 
his  body ;  he  was  conscious  of  heated  blood  as  in  a  youth 
of  twenty-five,  and  when  a  man  past  forty  knows  this 
touch  of  fever  he  may  also  know,  though  he  may  not 
recognize  it,  that  the  danger  signal  which  means  possible 
abandon  has  been  lit.  Moreover,  as  though  to  prove  his 
instinct  justified,  it  was  at  this  very  instant  that  the 
woman  turned  and  stared  at  him  deliberately.  She  looked 
into  his  eyes,  and  he  looked  into  hers.  He  knew  a 
moment's  keen  distress,  a  sharpest  possible  discomfort, 
that  after  all  he  had  expressed  his  desire  audibly.  Yet, 
though  he  blushed,  he  did  not  lower  his  eyes.  The  em- 
barrassment passed  instantly,  replaced  by  a  thrill  of 
strangest  pleasure  and  satisfaction.  He  knew  a  tinge 
of  inexplicable  dismay  as  well.  He  felt  for  a  second 
helpless  before  what  seemed  a  challenge  in  her  eyes.  The 
eyes  were  too  compelling.  They  mastered  him. 

In  order  to  meet  his  gaze  she  had  to  make  a  full 
turn  in  her  chair,  for  her  table  was  placed  directly  in 
front  of  his  own.  She  did  so  without  concealment.  It 
was  no  mere  attempt  to  see  what  lay  behind  by  making 
a  half-turn  and  pretending  to  look  elsewhere;  no  corner 
of  the  eye  business ;  but  a  full,  straight,  direct,  significant 
stare.  She  looked  into  his  soul  as  though  she  called 
him,  he  looked  into  hers  as  though  he  answered.  Sitting 
there  like  a  statue,  motionless,  without  a  bow,  without 
a  smile,  he  returned  her  intense  regard  unflinchingly  and 
yet  unwillingly.  He  made  no  sign.  He  shivered  again. 
...  It  was  perhaps  ten  seconds  before  she  turned  away 
with  an  air  as  if  she  had  delivered  her  message  and 
received  His  answer,  but  in  those  ten  seconds  a  series 
of  singular  ideas  crowded  his  mind,  leaving  an  impres- 
sion that  ten  years  could  never  efface.  The  face  and 


292  The  Wolves  of  God 

eyes  produced  a  kind  of  intoxication  in  him.  There  was 
almost  recognition,  as  though  she  said:  "Ah,  there  you 
are!  I  was  waiting;  you'll  have  to  come,  of  course. 
You  must !  "  And  just  before  she  turned  away  s£e 
smiled. 

He  felt  confused  and  helpless. 

The  face  he  described  as  unusual;  familiar,  too,  as 
with  the  atmosphere  of  some  long-  forgotten  dream,  and 
if  beauty  perhaps  was  absent,  character  and  individuality 
were  supreme.  Implacable  resolution  was  stamped  upon 
the  features,  which  yet  were  sweet  and  womanly,  stirring- 
an  emotion  in  him  that  he  could  not  name  and  certainly 
did  not  recognize.  The  eyes,  slanting  a  little  upwards, 
were  full  of  fire,  the  mouth  voluptuous  but  very  firm, 
the  chin  and  jaw  most  delicately  modelled,  yet  with  a 
masculine  strength  that  told  of  inflexible  resolve.  The 
resolution,  as  a  whole,  was  the  most  relentless  he  had 
ever  seen  upon  a  human  countenance.  It  dominated  him. 
"How  vain  to  resist  the  will,"  he  thought,  "that  lies 
behind  !  "  He  was  conscious  of  enslavement ;  she  con- 
veyed a  message  that  he  must  obey,  admitting  compli- 
ance with  her  unknown  purpose. 

That  some  extraordinary  wordless  exchange  was  regis- 
tered thus  between  them  seemed  very  clear;  and  it  was 
just  at  this  moment,  as  if  to  signify  her  satisfaction,  that 
she  smiled.  At  his  feeling  of  willing  compliance  with 
some  purpose  in  her  mind,  the  smile  appeared.  It  was 
faint,  so  faint  indeed  that  the  eyes  betrayed  it  rather  than 
the  mouth  and  lips ;  but  it  was  there ;  he  saw  it,  and  he 
thrilled  again  to  this  added  touch  of  wonder  and  enchant- 
ment. Yet,  strangest  of  all,  he  maintains  that  with  the 
smile  there  fluttered  over  the  resolute  face  a  sudden 
arresting  tenderness,  as  though  some  wild  flower  lit  a 
granite  surface  with  its  melting  loveliness.  He  was  aware 
in  the  clear  strong1  eyes  of  unshed  tears,  of  sympathy,  of 
self-sacrifice  he  called  maternal,  of  clinging  love.  It  was 
this  tenderness,  as  of  a  soft  and  gracious  mother,  and 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"          293 

this  implacable  resolution,  as  of  a  stern,  relentless  man, 
that  left  upon  his  receptive  soul  the  strange  impression  of 
sweetness  yet  of  domination. 

The  brief  ten  seconds  were  over.  She  turned  away  as 
deliberately  as  she  had  turned  to  look.  He  found  himself 
trembling  with  confused  emotions  he  could  not  disentangle, 
could  not  even  name ;  for,  with  the  subtle  intoxication  of 
compliance  in  his  soul  lay  also  a  vigorous  protest  that 
included  refusal,  even  a  violent  refusal  given  with  horror. 
This  unknown  woman,  without  actual  speech  or  definite 
gesture,  had  lit  a  flame  in  him  that  linked  on  far  away  and 
out  of  sight  with  the  magic  of  the  ancient  city's  mediaeval 
spell.  Both,  he  decided,  were  undesirable,  both  to  be 
resisted. 

He  was  quite  decided  about  this.  She  pertained  to 
forgotten  yet  unburied  things,  her  modern  aspect  a  mere 
disguise,  a  disguise  that  some  deep  unsatisfied  instinct  in 
him  pierced  with  ease. 

He  found  himself  equally  decided,  too,  upon  another 
thing  which,  in  spite  of  his  momentary  confusion,  stood 
out  clearly  :  the  magic  of  the  city,  the  enchantment  of  the 
woman,  both  attacked  a  constitutional  weakness  in  his 
blood,  a  line  of  least  resistance.  It  wore  no  physical 
aspect,  breathed  no  hint  of  ordinary  romance ;  the  mere 
male  and  female,  moral  or  immoral  touch  was  wholly 
absent;  yet  passion  lurked  there,  tumultuous  if  hidden, 
and  a  tract  of  consciousness,  long  untravelled,  was  lit  by 
sudden  ominous  flares.  His  character,  his  temperament, 
his  calling  in  life  as  a  former  clergyman  and  now  a  Red 
Cross  worker,  being  what  they  were,  he  stood  on  the  brink 
of  .an  adventure  not  dangerous  alone  but  containing  a 
challenge  of  fundamental  kind  that  involved  his  very  soul. 

No  further  thrill,  however,  awaited  him  immediately. 
He  left  his  table  before  she  did,  having  intercepted  no 
slightest  hint  of  desired  acquaintanceship  or  intercourse. 
He,  naturally,  made  no  advances;  she,  equally,  made  no 
smallest  sign.  Her  face  remained  hidden,  he  caught  no 


294  The  Wolves  of  God 

flash  of  eyes,  no  gesture,  no  hint  of  possible  invitation. 
He  went  upstairs  to  his  dingy  room,  and  in  due  course 
fell  asleep.  The  next  day  he  saw  her  not,  her  place  in 
the  dining-room  was  empty ;  but  in  the  late  evening  of  the 
following  day,  as  the  soft  spring  sunshine  found  him  pre- 
pared for  his  postponed  expedition,  he  met  her  suddenly 
on  the  stairs.  He  was  going  down  with  haversack  and  in 
walking  kit  to  an  early  dinner,  when  he  saw  her  coming 
up ;  she  was  perhaps  a  dozen  steps  below  him ;  they  must 
meet.  A  wave  of  confused,  embarrassed  pleasure  swept 
him.  He  realized  that  this  was  no  chance  meeting.  She 
meant  to  speak  to  him. 

Violent  attraction  and  an  equally  violent  repulsion 
seized  him.  There  was  no  escape,  nor,  had  escape  been 
possible,  would  he  have  attempted  it.  He  went  down  four 
steps,  she  mounted  four  towards  him  ;  then  he  took  one 
and  she  took  one.  They  met.  For  a  moment  they  stood 
level,  while  he  shrank  against  the  wall  to  let  her  pass. 
He  had  the  feeling  that  but  for  the  support  of  that  wall  he 
must  have  lost  his  balance  and  fallen  into  her,  for  the 
sunlight  from  the  landing  window  caught  her  face  and  lit 
it,  and  she  was  younger,  he  saw,  than  he  had  thought,  and 
far  more  comely.  Her  atmosphere  enveloped  him,  the 
sense  of  attraction  and  repulsion  became  intense.  She 
moved  past  him  with  the  slightest  possible  bow  of  recog- 
nition ;  then,  having  passed,  she  turned. 

She  stood  a  little  higher  than  himself,  a  step  at  most, 
and  she  thus  looked  down  at  him.  Her  eyes  blazed  into 
his.  She  smiled,  and  he  was  aware  again  of  the  domina- 
tion and  the  sweetness.  The  perfume  of  her  near  presence 
drowned  him;  his  head  swam.  "We  count  upon  you," 
she  said  in  a  low  firm  voice,  as  though  giving  a  command ; 
"I  know  ...  we  may.  We  do."  And,  before  he 
knew  what  he  was  saying,  trembling  a  little  between 
deep  pleasure  and  a  contrary  impulse  that  sought  to  choke 
the  utterance,  he  heard  his  own  voice  answering.  "You 
can  count  upon  me.  ..."  And  she  was  already  half- 


u 


Vengeance  is  Mine"          295 


way  up  the  next  flight  of  stairs  ere  he  could  move  a 
muscle,  or  attempt  to  thread  a  meaning  into  the  singular 
exchange. 

Yet  meaning,  he  well  knew,  there  was. 

She  was  gone ;  her  footsteps  overhead  had  died  away. 
He  stood  there  trembling  like  a  boy  of  twenty,  yet  also 
like  a  man  of  forty  in  whom  fires,  long  dreaded,  now 
blazed  sullenly.  She  had  opened  the  furnace  door,  the 
draught  rushed  through.  He  felt  again  the  old  unwelcome 
spell ;  he  saw  the  twisted  streets  'mid  leaning  gables  and 
shadowy  towers  of  a  day  forgotten ;  he  heard  the  ominous 
murmurs  of  a  crowd  that  thirsted  for  wheel  and  scaffold 
and  fire ;  and,  aware  of  vengeance,  sweet  and  terrible, 
aware,  too,  that  he  welcomed  it,  his  heart  was  troubled 
and  afraid. 

In  a  brief  second  the  impression  came  and  went ;  fol- 
lowing it  swiftly,  the  sweetness  of  the  woman  swept  him  : 
he  forgot  his  shrinking  in  a  rush  of  wild  delicious 
pleasure.  The  intoxication  in  him  deepened.  She  had 
recognized  him  !  She  had  bowed  and  even  smiled ;  she 
had  spoken,  assuming  familiarity,  intimacy,  including 
him  in  her  secret  purposes !  It  was  this  sweet  intimacy, 
cleverly  injected,  that  overcame  the  repulsion  he  acknow- 
ledged, winning  complete  obedience  to  the  unknown  mean- 
ing of  her  words.  This  meaning,  for  the  moment,  lay 
in  darkness ;  yet  it  was  a  portion  of  his  own  self,  he  felt, 
that  concealed  it  of  set  purpose.  He  kept  it  hid,  he 
looked  deliberately  another  way;  for,  if  he  faced  it  with 
full  recognition,  he  knew  that  he  must  resist  it  to  the 
death.  He  allowed  himself  to  ask  vague  questions — then 
let  her  dominating  spell  confuse  the  answers  so  that  he 
did  not  hear  them.  The  challenge  to  his  soul,  that  is,  he 
evaded. 

What  is  commonly  called  sex  lay  only  slightly  in  his 
troubled  emotions ;  her  purpose  had  nothing  that  kept 
step  with  chance  acquaintanceship.  There  lay  meaning, 
indeed,  in  her  smile  and  voice,  but  these  were  no  hand- 


296  The  Wolves  of  God 

maids  to  a  vulgar/intrigue  in  a  foreign  hotel.  Her  will 
breathed  cleaner  air;  her  purpose  aimed  at  some  graver, 
mightier  climax  than  the  mere  subjection  of  an  elderly 
victim  like  'himself.  That  will,  that  purpose,  he  felt  cer- 
tain, were  implacable  as  death,  the  resolve  in  those  bold 
eyes  was  not  a  common  one.  For,  in  some  strange  way, 
he  divined  the  strong  maternity  in  her;  the  maternal 
instinct  was  deeply,  even  predominantly,  involved ;  he  felt 
positive  that  a  divine  tenderness,  deeply  outraged,  was  a 
chief  ingredient  too.  In  some  way,  then,  she  needed  him, 
yet  not  she  alone,  for  the  pronoun  "we  "  was  used,  and 
there  were  others  with  her;  in  some  way,  equally,  a  part 
of  him  was  already  her  and  their  accomplice,  an  unresist- 
ing slave,  a  willing  co-conspirator. 

He  knew  one  other  thing,  and  it  was  this  that  he  kept 
concealed  so  carefully  from  himself.  His  recognition  of 
it  was  sub-conscious  possibly,  but  for  that  very  reason 
true :  her  purpose  was  consistent  with  the  satisfaction  at 
last  of  a  deep  instinct  in  him  that  clamoured  to  know 
gratification.  It  was  for  these  odd,  mingled  reasons  that 
he  stood  trembling  when  she  left  him  on  the  stairs,  and 
finally  went  down  to  his  hurried  meal  with  a  heart  that 
knew  wonder,  anticipation,  and  delight,  but  also  dread. 


The  table  in  front  of  him  remained  unoccupied;  his 
dinner  finished,  he  went  out  hastily. 

As  he  passed  through  the  crowded  streets,  his  chief 
desire  was  to  be  quickly  free  of  the  old  muffled  buildings 
and  airless  alleys  with  their  clinging  atmosphere  of  other 
days.  He  longed  for  the  sweet  taste  of  the  heights,  the 
smells  of  the  forest  whither  he  was  bound.  This  Forgt 
Verte,  he  knew,  rolled  for  leagues  towards  the  north, 
empty  of  houses  as  of  human  beings ;  it  was  the  home  of 
deer  and  birds  and  rabbits,  of  wild  boar  too.  .There  would 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"          297 

be  spring  flowers  among  the  brushwood,  anemones,  celan- 
dine, oxslip,  daffodils.  The  vapours  of  the  town  oppressed 
him,  the  warm  and  heavy  moisture  stifled;  he  wanted 
space  and  the  sight  of  clean  simple  things  that  would 
stimulate  his  mind  with  lighter  thoughts. 

He  soon  passed  the  Rampe,  skirted  the  ugly  villas 
of  modern  Bihorel  and,  rising  now  with  every  step,  entered 
the  Route  Neuve.  He  went  unduly  fast ;  he  was  already 
above  the  Cathedral  spire;  below  him  the  Seine  mean- 
dered round  the  chalky  hills,  laden  with  war-barges,  and 
across  a  dip,  still  pink  in  the  afterglow,  rose  the  blunt 
Down  of  Bonsecours  with  its  anti-aircraft  batteries. 
Poetry  and  violent  fact  crashed  everywhere;  he  longed 
to  top  the  hill  and  leave  these  unhappy  reminders  of 
death  behind  him.  In  front  the  sweet  woods  already 
beckoned  through  the  twilight.  He  hastened.  Yet  while 
he  deliberately  fixed  his  imagination  on  promised  peace 
and  beauty,  an  undercurrent  ran  sullenly  in  his  mindv 
busy  with  quite  other  thoughts.  The  unknown  woman 
and  her  singular  words,  the  following  mystery  of  the 
ancient  city,  the  soft  beating  wonder  of  the  two  to- 
gether, these  worked  their  incalculable  magic  persist- 
ently about  him.  Repression  merely  added  to  their 
power.  His  mind  was  a  prey  to  some  shadowy,  remote 
anxiety  that,  intangible,  invisible,  yet  knocked  with 
ghostly  fingers  upon  some  door  of  ancient  memory.  .  .  . 
He  watched  the  moon  rise  above  the  eastern  ridge,  in 
the  west  the  afterglow  of  sunset  still  hung  red.  But 
these  did  not  hold  his  attention  as  they  normally  must 
have  done.  Attention  ^seemed  elsewhere.  The  under- 
current bore  him  down  a  siding,  into  a  backwater,  as  it 
were,  that  clamoured  for  discharge. 

He  thought  suddenly,  then,  of  weather,  what  he  called 
"  German  weather  " — that  combination  of  natural  con- 
ditions which  so  oddly  favoured  the  enemy  always.  It 
had  often  occurred  to  him  as  strange ;  on  sea  and  land, 
mist,  rain  and  wind,  the  fog  and  drying  sun  worked  ever 
T 


298  The  Wolves  of  God 

on  their  side.  The  coincidence  was  odd,  to  say  the  least. 
And  now  this  glimpse  of  rising-  moon  and  sunset  sky  re- 
minded him  unpleasantly  of  the  subject.  Legends  of 
pagan  weather-gods  passed  through  his  mind  like  hurry- 
ing shadows.  These  shadows  multiplied,  changed  form, 
vanished  and  returned.  They  came  and  went  with  in- 
coherence, a  straggling  stream,  rushing  from  one  point 
to  another,  manoeuvring  for  position,  but  all  unled,  un- 
guided  by  his  will.  The  physical  exercise  filled  his  brain 
with  blood,  and  thought  danced  undirected,  picture  upon 
picture  driving  by,  so  that  soon  he  slipped  from  German 
weather  and  pagan  gods  to  the  witchcraft  of  past  cen- 
turies, of  its  alleged  association  with  the  natural  powers 
of  the  elements,  and  thus,  eventually,  to  his  cherished 
beliefs  that  humanity  had  advanced. 

Such  remnants  of  primitive  days  were  grotesque  super- 
stition, of  course.  But  had  humanity  advanced?  Had 
the  individual  progressed  after  all?  Civilization,  was  it 
not  the  merest  artificial  growth?  And  the  old  perplexity 
rushed  through  his  mind  again — the  German  barbarity  and 
blood-lust,  the  savagery,  the  undoubted  sadic  impulses,  the 
frightfulness  taught  with  cool  calculation  by  their  highest 
minds,  approved  by  their  professors,  endorsed  by  their 
clergy,  applauded  by  their  women  even — all  the  unwel- 
come, undesired  thoughts  came  flocking  back  upon  him, 
escorted  by  the  trooping  shadows.  They  lay,  these  ques- 
tions, still  unsolved  within  him ;  it  was  the  undercurrent, 
flowing  more  swiftly  now,  that  bore  them  to  the  surface. 
It  had  acquired  momentum  ;  it  was  leading  somewhere. 

They  were  a  thoughtful,  intellectual  race,  these  Ger- 
mans ;  their  music,  literature,  philosophy,  their  science — 
how  reconcile  the  opposing  qualities?  He  had  read  that 
their  herd-instinct  was  unusually  developed,  though  be- 
traying the  characteristics  of  a  low  wild  savage  type — the 
lupine.  It  might  be  true.  Fear  and  danger  wakened  this 
collective  instinct  into  terrific  activity,  making  them  blind 
and  humourless  ;  they  fought  best,  like  wolves,  in  contact ; 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"          299 

they  howled  and  whined  and  boasted  loudly  all  together  to 
inspire  terror ;  their  Hymn  of  Hate  was  but  an  elaboration 
of  the  wolf's  fierce  bark,  giving-  them  herd-courage ;  and 
a  savage  discipline  was  necessary  to  their  lupine  type. 

These  reflections  thronged  his  mind  as  the  blood 
coursed  in  his  veins  with  the  rapid  climbing;  yet  one  and 
all,  the  beauty  of  the  evening,  the  magic  of  the  hidden 
town,  the  thoughts  of  German  horror,  German  weather, 
German  gods,  all  these,  even  the  odd  detail  that  they 
revived  a  pagan  practice  by  hammering  nails  into  effigies 
and  idols — all  led  finally  to  one  blazing  centre  that  nothing 
could  dislodge  nor  anything  conceal  :  a  woman's  voice  and 
eyes.  To  these,  he  knew  quite  well,  was  due  the  un- 
desired  intensification  of  the  very  mood,  the  very  emotions, 
the  very  thoughts  he  had  come  out  on  purpose  to  escape. 

"It  is  the  night  of  the  vernal  equinox,"  occurred  to 
him  suddenly,  sharp  as  a  whispered  voice  beside  him. 
He  had  no  notion  whence  the  idea  was  born.  It  had  no 
particular  meaning,  so  far  as  he  remembered. 

"It  had  then  ..."  said  the  voice  imperiously,  rising, 
it  seemed,  directly  out  of  the  under-current  in  his  soul. 

It  startled  him.  He  increased  his  pace.  He  walked 
very  quickly,  whistling  softly  as  he  went. 

The  dusk  had  fallen  when  at  length  he  topped  the 
long,  slow  hill,  and  left  the  last  of  the  atrocious  straggling 
villas  well  behind  him.  The  ancient  city  lay  far  below 
in  murky  haze  and  smoke,  but  ting'ed  now  with  the  silver 
of  the  growing  moon. 


He  stood  now  on  the  open  plateau.  He  was  on  the 
heights  at  last. 

The  night  air  met  him  freshly  in  the  face,  so  that  he 
forgot  the  fatigue  of  the  long  climb  uphill,  taken  too  fast 
somewhat  for  his  years.  He  drew  a  deep  draught  into 
his  lungs  and  stepped  out  briskly. 


300  The  Wolves  of  God 

Far  in  the  upper  sky  light  flaky  clouds  raced  through 
the  reddened  air,  but  the  wind  kept  to  these  higher 
strata,  and  the  world  about  him  lay  very  still.  Few 
lights  showed  in  the  farms  and  cottages,  for  this  was 
the  direct  route  of  the  Gothas,  and  nothing  that  could 
help  the  German  hawks  to  find  the  river  was  visible. 

His  mind  cleared  pleasantly;  this  keen  sweet  air  held 
no  mystery ;  he  put  his  best  foot  foremost,  whistling  still, 
but  a  little  more  loudly  than  before.  Among  the  orchards 
he  saw  the  daisies  glimmer.  Also,  he  heard  the  guns,  a 
thudding  concussion  in  the  direction  of  the  coveted 
Amiens,  where,  some  sixty  miles  as  the  crow  flies,  they 
roared  their  terror  into  the  calm  evening  skies.  He  cursed 
the  sound,  in  the  town  below  it  was  not  audible.  Thought 
jumped  then  to  the  men  who  fired  them,  and  so  to  the 
prisoners  who  worked  on  the  roads  outside  the  hospitals 
and  camps  he  visited  daily.  He  passed  them  every  morn- 
ing and  night,  and  the  N.C.O.  invariably  saluted  his  Red 
Cross  uniform,  a  salute  he  returned,  when  he  could  not 
avoid  it,  with  embarrassment. 

One  man  in  particular  stood  out  clearly  iri  this 
memory ;  he  had  exchanged  glances  with  him,  noted  the 
expression  of  his  face,  the  number  of  his  gang  printed 
on  coat  and  trousers — "82."  The  fellow  had  somehow 
managed  to  establish  a  relationship ;  he  would  look  up 
and  smile  or  frown;  if  the  news,  from  his  point  of  view, 
was  good,  he  smiled ;  if  it  was  bad,  he  scowled ;  once, 
insolently  enough — when  the  Germans  had  taken  Albert, 
PeVonne,  Bapaume — he  grinned. 

Something  about  the  sullen,  close-cropped  face, 
typically  Prussian,  made  the  other  shudder.  It  was  the 
visage  of  an  animal,  neither  evil  nor  malignant,  even 
good-natured  sometimes  when  it  smiled,  yet  of  an  animal 
that  could  be  fierce  with  the  lust  of  happiness,  ferocious 
with  delight.  The  sullen  savagery  of  a  human  wolf  lay 
in  it  somewhere.  He  pictured  its  owner  impervious  to 
shame,  to  normal  human  instinct  as  civilized  people  know 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"          301 

these.  Doubtless  he  read  his  own  feelings  into  it.  He 
could  imagine  the  man  doing  anything  and  everything, 
regarding  chivalry  and  sporting  instinct  as  proof  of  fear 
or  weakness.  He  could  picture  this  member  of  the  wolf- 
pack  killing  a  woman  or  a  child,  mutilating,  cutting  o<ff 
little  hands  even,  with  the  conscientious  conviction  that  it 
was  right  and  sensible  to  destroy  any  individual  of  an 
enemy  tribe.  It  was,  to  him,  an  atrocious  and  inhuman 
face. 

It  now  cropped  up  with  unpleasant  vividness,  as  he 
listened  to  the  distant  guns  and  thought  of  Amiens  with 
its  back  against  the  wall,  its  inhabitants  flying 

Ah  !  Amiens  .  .  .  !  He  again  saw  the  woman  staring 
into  his  obedient  eyes  across  the  narrow  space  between 
the  tables.  He  smelt  the  delicious  perfume  of  her  dress 
and  person  on  the  stairs.  He  heard  her  commanding 
voice,  her  very  words  :  "We  count  on  you.  ...  I  know 
we  can  .  .  .  we  do."  And  her  background  was  of  twisted 
streets,  dark  alley-ways  and  leaning  gables.  .  .  . 

He  hurried,  whistling  loudly  an  air  that  he  invented 
suddenly,  using  his  stick  like  a  golf  club  at  every  loose 
stone  his  feet  encountered,  making  as  much  noise  as 
possible.  He  told  himself 'he  was  a  parson  and  a  Red 
Cross  worker.  He  looked  up  and  saw  that  the  stars  were 
out.  The  pace  made  him  warm,  and  he  shifted  his  haver- 
sack to  the  other  shoulder.  The  moon,  he  observed,  now 
cast  his  shadow  for  a  long  distance  on  the  sandy  road. 

After  another  mile,  while  the  air  grew  sharper  and 
twilight  surrendered  finally  to  the  moon,  the  road  began 
to  curve  and  dip,  the  cottages  lay  farther  out  in  the  dim 
fields,  the  farms  and  barns  occurred  at  longer  intervals. 
A  dog  barked  now  and  again ;  he  saw  cows  lying  down 
for  the  night  beneath  shadowy  fruit-trees.  And  then 
the  scent  in  the  air  changed  slightly,  and  a  darkening  of 
the  near  horizon  warned  him  that  the  forest  had  come 
close. 

This  was  an  event.     Its   influence  breathed  already 


302  The  Wolves  of  God 

a  new  perfume ;  the  shadows  from  its  myriad  trees  stole 
out  and  touched  him.  Ten  minutes  later  he  reached  its 
actual  frontier  cutting  across  the  plateau  like  a  line  of 
sentries  at  attention.  He  slowed  down  a  little.  Here, 
within  sight  and  touch  of  his  long-desired  objective,  he 
hesitated.  It  stretched,  he  knew  from  the  map,  for  many 
leagues  to  the  north,  uninhabited,  lonely,  the  home  of 
peace  and  silence;  there  were  flowers  there,  and  cool 
sweet  spaces  where  the  moonlight  fell.  Yet  here,  within 
scent  and  touch  of  it,  he  slowed  down  a  moment  to  draw 
breath.  A  forest  on  the  map  is  one  thing ;  visible  before 
the  eyes  when  night  has  fallen,  it  is  another.  It  is 
real. 

The  wind,  not  noticeable  hitherto,  now  murmured 
towards  him  from  the  serried  trees  that  seemed  to  manu- 
facture darkness  out  of  nothing.  This  murmur  hummed 
about  him.  It  enveloped  him.  Piercing  it,  another  sound 
that  was  not  the  guns  just  reached  him,  but  so  distant 
that  he  hardly  noticed  it.  He  looked  back.  Dusk  sud- 
denly merged  in  night.  He  stopped. 

"How  practical  the  French  are,"  he  said  to  himself 
— aloud — as  he  looked  at  the  road  running  straight  as 
a  ruled  line  into  the  heart  of  the  trees.  "They  waste  no 
energy,  no  space,  no  time.  Admirable  !  " 

It  pierced  the  forest  like  a  lance,  tapering  to  a  faint 
point  in  the  misty  distance.  The  trees  ate  its  undeviating 
straightness  as  though  they  would  smother  it  from,  sight, 
as  though  its  rigid  outline  marred  their  mystery.  He 
admired  the  practical  makers  of  the  road,  yet  sided,  too, 
with  the  poetry  of  the  trees.  He  stood  there  staring, 
waiting,  dawdling.  .  .  .  About  him,  save  for  this  murmur 
of  the  wind,  was  silence.  Nothing  living  stirred.  The 
world  lay  extraordinarily  still.  That  other  distant  sound 
had  died  away. 

He  lit  his  pipe,  glad  that  the  match  blew  out  and  the 
damp  tobacco  needed  several  matches  before  the  pipe  drew 
properly.  His  puttees  hurt  him  a  little,  he  stooped  to 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"          303 

loosen  them.  His  haversack  swung  round  in  front  as  he 
straightened  up  again,  he  shifted  it  laboriously  to  the 
other  shoulder.  A  tiny  stone  in  his  right  boot  caused 
irritation.  Its  removal  took  a  considerable  time,  for  he 
had  to  sit  down,  and  a  log  was  not  at  once  forthcoming. 
Moreover,  the  laces  gave  him  trouble,  and  his  fingers  had 
grown  thick  with  heat  and  the  knots  were  difficult  to 
tie.  .  .  . 

"  There  !  "  He  said  it  aloud,  standing  up  again. 
"Now,  at  last,  I'm  ready!"  Then  added  a  mild  im- 
precation, for  his  pipe  had  gone  out  while  he  stooped 
over  the  recalcitrant  boot,  and  it  had  to  be  lighted  once 
again.  "Ah!  "  he  gasped  finally  with  a  sigh  as,  facing 
the  forest  for  the  third  time,  he  shuffled  his  tunic  straight, 
altered  his  haversack  once  more,  changed  his  stick  from 
the  right  hand  to  the  left — and  faced  the  foolish  truth 
without  further  pretence. 

He  mopped  his  forehead  carefully,  as  though  at  the 
same  time  trying  to  mop  away  from  his  mind  a  faint 
anxiety,  a  very  faint  uneasiness,  that  gathered  there. 
Was  someone  standing  near  him?  Had  somebody  come 
close?  He  listened  intently.  It  was  the  blood  singing 
in  his  ears,  of  course,  that  curious  distant  noise.  For, 
truth  to  tell,  the  loneliness  bit  just  below  the  surface  of 
what  he  found  enjoyable.  It  seemed  to  him  that  some- 
body was  coming,  someone  he  could  not  see,  so  that 
he  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  once  again,  glanced 
quickly  right  and  left,  then  peered  down  the  long  opening 
cut  through  the  woods  in  front — when  there  came  sud- 
denly a  roar  and  a  blaze  of  dazzling  light  from  behind, 
so  instantaneously  that  he  barely  had  time  to  obey  the 
instinct  of  self-preservation  and  step  aside.  He  actually 
leapt.  Pressed  against  the  hedge,  he  saw  a  motor-car 
rush  past  him  like  a  whirlwind,  flooding  the  sandy  road 
with  fire ;  a  second  followed  it ;  and,  to  his  complete 
amazement,  then,  a  third. 

They   were   powerful,    private   cars,    so-called.      This 


304  The  Wolves  of  God 

struck  him  instantly.  Two  other  things  he  noticed, 
as  they  dived  down  the  throat  of  the  long  white  road — 
they  showed  no  tail-lights.  This  made  him  wonder. 
And,  secondly,  the  drivers,  clearly  seen,  were  women. 
They  were  not  even  in  uniform — which  made  him  wonder 
even  more.  The  occupants,  too,  were  women.  He 
caught  the  outline  of  toque  and  feather — or  was  it  flowers? 
• — against  the  closed  windows  in  the  moonlight  as  the 
procession  rushed  past  him. 

He  felt  bewildered  and  astonished.  Private  motors 
were  rare,  and  military  regulations  exceedingly  strict; 
the  danger  of  spies  dressed  in  French  uniform  was  con- 
stant; cars  armed  with  machine  guns,  he  knew,  patrolled 
the  countryside  in  all  directions.  Shaken  and  alarmed, 
he  thought  of  favoured  persons  fleeing  stealthily  by  night, 
of  treachery,  disguise  and  swift  surprise;  he  thought  of 
various  things  as  he  stood  peering  down  the  road  for 
ten  minutes  after  all  sight  and  sound  of  the  cars  had 
died  away.  But  no  solution  of  the  mystery  occurred  to 
him.  Down  the  white  throat  the  motors  vanished.  His 
pipe  had  gone  out ;  he  lit  it,  and  puffed  furiously. 

His  thoughts,  at  any  rate,  took  temporarily  a  new 
direction  now.  The  road  was  not  as  lonely  as  he  had 
imagined.  A  natural  reaction  set  in  at  once,  and  this 
proof  of  practical,  modern  life  banished  the  shadows  from 
his  mind  effectually.  He  started  off  once  more,  oblivious 
of  his  former  hesitation.  He  even  felt  a  trifle  shamed 
and  foolish,  pretending  that  the  vanished  mood  had  not 
existed.  The  tobacco  had  been  damp.  His  boot  had 
really  hurt  him.  .  .  . 

Yet  bewilderment  and  surprise  stayed  with  him.  The 
swiftness  of  the  incident  was  disconcerting;  the  cars 
arrived  and  vanished  with  such  extraordinary  rapidity; 
their  noisy  irruption  into  this  peaceful  spot  seemed  in- 
congruous ;  they  roared,  blazed,  rushed  and  disappeared ; 
silence  resumed  its  former  sway. 

But  the  silence  persisted,  whereas  the  noise  was  gone. 


cc 


Vengeance  is  Mine"          305 


This  touch  of  the  incongruous  remained  with  him  as 
he  now  went  ever  deeper  into  the  heart  of  the  quiet 
forest.  This  odd  incongruity  of  dreams  remained. 


The  keen  air  stole  from  the  woods,  cooling  his  body 
and  his  mind ;  anemones  gleamed  faintly  among  the  brush- 
wood, lit  by  the  pallid  moonlight.  There  were  beauty, 
calm  and  silence,  the  slow  breathing  of  the  earth  beneath 
the  comforting  sweet  stars.  War,  in  this  haunt  of  ancient 
peace,  seemed  an  incredible  anachronism.  His  thoughts 
turned  to  gentje  happy  hopes  of  a  day  when  the  lion  and 
the  lamb  would  yet  lie  down  together,  and  a  little  child 
would  lead  them  without  fear.  His  soul  dwelt  with 
peaceful  longings  and  calm  desires. 

He  walked  on  steadily,  until  the  inflexible  straightness 
of  the  endless  road  began  to  afflict  him,  and  he  longed  for 
a  turning  to  the  right  or  left.  He  looked  eagerly  about 
him  for  a  woodland  path.  Time  mattered  little ;  he  could 
wait  for  the  sunrise  and  walk  home  "beneath  the  young 
grey  dawn  "  ;  he  had  food  and  matches,  he  could  light  a 

fire,  and  sleep No  ! — after  all,  he  would  not  light  a 

fire,  perhaps ;  he  might  be  accused  of  signalling  to  hostile 
aircraft,  or  a  garde  foresti&re  might  catch  him.  He  would 
not  bother  with  a  fire.  The  night  was  warm,  he  could 
enjoy  himself  and  pass  the  time  quite  happily  without 
artificial  heat ;  probably  he  would  need  no  sleep  at  all.  .  .  . 
And  just  then  he  noticed  an  opening  on  his  right,  where  a 
seductive  pathway  led  in  among  the  trees.  The  moon, 
now  higher  in  the  sky,  lit  this  woodland  trail  enticingly ; 
it  seemed  the  very  opening  he  had  looked  for,  and  with 
a  thrill  of  pleasure  he  at  once  turned  down  it,  leaving  the 
ugly  road  behind  him  with  relief. 

The  sound  of  his  footsteps  hushed  instantly  on  the 
leaves  and  moss ;  the  silence  became  noticeable ;  an 


306  The  Wolves  of  God 

unusual  stillness  followed ;  it  seemed  that  something  in  his 
mind  was  also  hushed.  His  feet  moved  stealthily,  as 
though  anxious  to  conceal  his  presence  from  surprise. 
His  steps  dragged  purposely;  their  rustling  through  the 
thick  dead  leaves,  perhaps,  was  pleasant  to  him.  He  was 
not  sure. 

The  path  opened  presently  into  a  clearing  where 
the  moonlight  made  a  pool  of  silver,  the  surrounding 
brushwood  fell  away ;  and  in  the  centre  a  gigantic  outline 
rose.  It  was,  he  saw,  a  beech  tree  that  dwarfed  the  sur- 
rounding forest  by  its  grandeur.  Its  bulk  loomed  very 
splendid  against  the  sky,  a  faint  rustle  just  audible  in  its 
myriad  tiny  leaves.  Dipped  in  the  moonlight,  it  had 
such  majesty  of  proportion,  such  symmetry,  that  he 
stopped  in  admiration.  It  was,  he  saw,  a  multiple  tree, 
five  stems  springing  with  attempted  spirals  out  of  an 
enormous  trunk ;  it  was  immense ;  it  had  a  presence,  the 
space  framed  it  to  perfection.  The  clearing,  evidently, 
was  a  favourite  resting-place  for  summer  picnickers,  a 
playground,  probably,  for  city  children  on  holiday  after- 
noons; woodcutters,  too,  had  been  here  recently,  for  he 
noticed  piled  brushwood  ready  to  be  carted.  It  indicated 
admirably,  he  felt,  the  limits  of  his  night  expedition. 
Here  he  would  rest  awhile,  eat  his  late  supper,  sleep 

perhaps  round  a  small No  !  again — a  fire  he  need  not 

make ;  a  spark  might  easily  set  the  woods  ablaze,  it  was 
against  both  forest  and  military  regulations.  This  idea 
of  a  fire,  otherwise  so  natural,  was  distasteful,  even 
repugnant,  to  him.  He  wondered  a  little  why  it  recurred. 
He  noticed  this  time,  moreover,  something  unpleasant 
connected  with  the  suggestion  of  a  fire,  something  that 
made  him  shrink;  almost  a  ghostly  dread  lay  hidden 
in  it. 

This  startled  him.  A  dozen  excellent  reasons,  supplied 
by  his  brain,  warned  him  that  a  fire  was  unwise ;  but  the 
true  reason,  supplied  by  another  part  of  him,  concealed 
itself  with  care,  as  though  afraid  that  reason  might  detect 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"          307 

its  nature  and  fix  the  label  on.  Disliking  this  reminder 
of  his  earlier  mood,  he  moved  forward  into  the  clearing", 
swinging-  his  stick  aggressively  and  whistling.  He 
approached  the  tree,  where  a  dozen  thick  roots  dipped  into 
the  earth.  Admiring,  looking  up  and  down,  he  paced 
slowly  round  its  prodigious  girth,  then  stood  absolutely 
still.  His  heart  stopped  abruptly,  his  blood  became  con- 
gealed. He  saw  something  that  filled  him  with  a  sudden 
emptiness  of  terror.  On  this  western  side  the  shadow  lay 
very  black ;  it  was  between  the  thick  limbs,  half  stem, 
half  root,  where  the  dark  hollows  gave  easy  hiding-places, 
that  he  was  positive  he  detected  movement.  A  portion  of 
the  trunk  had  moved. 

He  stood  stock  still  and  stared — not  three  feet  from  the 
trunk — when  there  came  a  second  movement.  Concealed 
in  the  shadows  there  crouched  a  living  form.  The  move- 
ment defined  itself  immediately.  Half  reclining,  half 
standing,  a  living  being  pressed  itself  close  against  the 
tree,  yet  fitting  so  neatly  into  the  wide  scooped  hollows, 
that  it  was  scarcely  distinguishable  from  its  ebony  back- 
ground. But  for  the  chance  movement  he  must  have 
passed  it  undetected.  Equally,  his  outstretched  fingers 
might  have  touched  it.  The  blood  rushed  from  his  heart, 
as  he  saw  this  second  movement. 

Detaching  itself  from  the  obscure  background,  the 
figure  rose  and  stood  before  him.  It  swayed  a  little,  then 
stepped  out  into  the  patch  of  moonlight  on  his  left.  Three 
feet  lay  between  them.  The  figure  then  bent  over.  A 
pallid  face  with  burning  eyes  thrust  forward  and  peered 
straight  into  his  own. 

The  human  being  was  a  woman.  The  same  instant  he 
recognized  the  eyes  that  had  stared  him  out  of  counten- 
ance in  the  dining-room  two  nights  ago.  He  was  petrified. 
She  stared  him  out  of  countenance  now. 

And,  as  she  did  so,  the  under-current  he  had  tried  to 
ignore  so  long  swept  to  the  surface  in  a  tumultuous  flood, 
obliterating  his  normal  self.  Something  elaborately  built 


308  The  Wolves  of  God 

up  in  his  soul  by  years  of  artificial  training  ^lapsed  like 
a  house  of  cards,  and  he  knew  himself  undone. 

"They've  got  me  ...  !  "  flashed  dreadfully  through 
his  mind.  It  was,  again,  like  a  message  delivered  in  a 
dream  where  the  significance  of  acts  performed  and 
language  uttered,  concealed  at  the  moment,  is  revealed 
much  later  only. 

"After  all— they've  got  me'.  .  .    !" 


The  dialogue  that  followed  seemed  strange  to  him  only 
when  looking  back  upon  it.  The  element  of  surprise 
again  was  negligible  if  not  wholly  absent,  but  the  incon- 
gruity of  dreams,  almost  of  nightmare,  became  more 
marked.  Though  the  affair  was  unlikely,  it  was  far  from 
incredible.  So  completely  were  this  man  and  woman  in- 
volved in  some  purpose  common  to  them  both  that  their 
talk,  their  meeting,  their  instinctive  sympathy  at  the  time 
seemed  natural.  The  same  stream  bore  them  irresistibly 
towards  the  same  far  sea.  Only,  as  yet,  this  common 
purpose  remained  concealed.  Nor  could  he  define  the 
violent  emotions  that  troubled  him.  Their  exact  descrip- 
tion was  in  him,  but  so  deep  that  he  could  not  draw  it 
up.  Moonlight  lay  upon  his  thought,  merging  clear  out- 
lines. 

Divided  against  himself,  the  cleavage  left  no  authorita- 
tive self  in  control;  his  desire  to  take  an  immediate 
decision  resulted  in  a  confused  struggle,  where  shame  and 
pleasure,  attraction  and  revulsion  mingled  painfully.  In- 
congruous details  tumbled  helter-skelter  about  his  mind  : 
for  no  obvious  reason,  he  remembered  again  his  Red  Cross 
uniform,  his  former  holy  calling,  his  nationality  too;  he 
was  a  servant  of  mercy,  a  teacher  of  the  love  of  God ;  he 
was  an  English  gentleman.  Against  which  rose  other 
details,  as  in  opposition,  holding  just  beyond  the  reach  of 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"          309 

words,  yet  rising-,  he  recognized  well  enough,  from  the 
bed-rock  of  the  human  animal,  whereon  a  few  centuries 
have  imposed  the  thin  crust  of  refinement  men  call  civiliza- 
tion. He  was  aware  of  joy  and  loathing. 

In  the  first  few  seconds  he  knew  the  clash  of  a  dreadful 
fundamental  struggle,  while  the  spell  of  this  woman's 
strange  enchantment  poured  over  him,  seeking  the  recon- 
ciliation he  himself  could  not  achieve.  Yet  the  reconcilia- 
tion she  sought  meant  victory  or  defeat;  no  compromise 
lay  in  it.  Something  imperious  emanating  from  her 
already  dominated  the  warring  elements  towards  a 
coherent  whole.  He  stood  before  her,  quivering  with 
emotions  he  dared  not  name.  Her  great  womanhood  he 
recognized,  acknowledging  obedience  to  her  undisclosed 
intentions.  And  this  idea  of  coming  surrender  terrified 
him.  Whence  came,  too,  that  queenly  touch  about  her 
that  made  him  feel  he  should  have  sunk  upon  his  knees? 

The  conflict  resulted  in  a  curious  compromise.  He 
raised  his  hand ;  he  saluted  ;  he  found  very  ordinary  words. 

"You  passed  me  only  a  short  time  ago,"  he  stam- 
mered, "in  the  motors.  There  were  others  with  you " 

"Knowing  that  you  would  find  us  and  come  after. 
We  count  on  your  presence  and  your  willing  help."  Her 
voice  was  firm  as  with  unalterable  conviction.  It  was 
persuasive  too.  He  nodded,  as  though  acquiescence 
seemed  the  only  course. 

"  We  need  your  sympathy ;  we  must  have  your  power 
too." 

He  bowed  again.  "  My  power  !  "  Something  exulted 
in  him.  But  he  murmured  only.  It  was  natural,  he  felt; 
he  gave  consent  without  a  question. 

Strange  words  he  both  understood  and  did  not  under- 
stand. Her  voice,  low  and  silvery,  was  that  of  a  gentle, 
cultured  woman,  but  command  rang  through  it  with  a 
clang  of  metal,  terrible  behind  the  sweetness.  She  moved 
a  little  closer,  standing  erect  before  him  in  the  moonlight, 
her  figure  borrowing  something  of  the  great  tree's 


3io  The  Wolves  of  God 

majesty  behind  her.  It  was  incongruous,  this  gentle  and 
yet  sinister  air  she  wore.  Whence  came,  in  this  calm 
peaceful  spot,  the  suggestion  of  a  wild  and  savage  back- 
ground to  her?  Why  were  there  tumult  and  oppression  in 
his  heart,  pain,  horror,  tenderness  and  mercy,  mixed 
beyond  disentanglement?  Why  did  he  think  already,  but 
helplessly,  of  escape,  yet  at  the  same  time  burn  to  stay? 
Whence  came  again,  too,  a  certain  queenly  touch  he  felt 
in  her? 

"The  gods  have  brought  you,"  broke  across  his 
turmoil  in  a  half  whisper  whose  breath  almost  touched  his 
face.  "You  belong  to  us." 

The  deeps  rose  in  him.  Seduced  by  the  sweetness  and 
the  power,  the  warring  divisions  in  his  being  drew 
together.  His  under-self  more  and  more  obtained  the 
mastery  she  willed.  Then  something  in  the  French  she 
used  flickered  across  his  mind  with  a  faint  reminder  of 
normal  things  again. 

"Belgian —  "  he  began,  and  then  stopped  short,  as 
her  instant  rejoinder  broke  in  upon  his  halting  speech  and 
petrified  him.  In  her  voice  sang  that  triumphant  tender- 
ness that  only  the  feminine  powers  of  the  Universe  may 
compass  :  it  seemed  the  sky  sang  with  her,  the  mating 
birds,  wild  flowers,  the  south  wind  and  the  running 
streams.  All  these,  even  the  silver  birches,  lent  their 
fluid,  feminine  undertones  to  the  two  pregnant  words  with 
which  she  interrupted  him  and  completed  his  own  un- 
finished sentence  : 

" — - —  and  mother." 

With  the  dreadful  calm  of  an  absolute  assurance,  she 
stood  and  watched  him. 

His  understanding  already  showed  signs  of  clearing. 
She  stretched  her  hands  out  with  a  passionate  appeal,  a 
yearning  gesture,  the  eloquence  of  which  should  explain 
all  that  remained  unspoken.  He  saw  their  grace  and 
symmetry,  exquisite  in  the  moonlight,  then  watched  them 
fold  together  in  an  attitude  of  prayer.  Beautiful  mother 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"          311 

hands  they  were;  hands  made  to  smooth  the  pillows  of 
the  world,  to  comfort,  bless,  caress,  hands  that  little 
children  everywhere  must  lean  upon  and  love — perfect 
symbol  of  protective,  self-forgetful  motherhood. 

This  tenderness  he  noted ;  he  noted  next — the  strength. 
In  the  folded  hands  he  divined  the  expression  of  another 
great  world-power,  fulfilling  tHe  implacable  resolution  of 
the  mouth  and  eyes.  He  was  aware  of  relentless  purpose, 
more — of  merciless  revenge,  as  by  a  protective  mother- 
hood outraged  beyond  endurance.  Moreover,  the  gesture 
held  appeal;  these  hands,  so  close  that  their  actual  per- 
fume reached  him,  sought  his  own  in  help.  The  power 
in  himself  as  man,  as  male,  as  father — this  was  required 
of  him  in  the  fulfilment  of  the  unknown  purpose  to  which 
this  woman  summoned  him.  His  understanding  cleared 
still  more. 

The  couple  faced  one  another,  staring  fixedly  beneath 
the  giant  beech  that  overarched  them.  In  the  dark  of  his 
eyes,  he  knew,  lay  growing  terror.  He  shivered,  and  the 
shiver  passed  down  his  spine,  making  his  whole  body 
tremble.  There  stirred  in  him  an  excitement  he  loathed, 
yet  welcomed,  as  the  primitive  male  in  him,  answering 
the  summons,  reared  up  with  instinctive,  dreadful  glee  to 
shatter  the  bars  that  civilization  had  so  confidently  set 
upon  its  freedom.  A  primal  emotion  of  his  under-being, 
ancient  lust  that  had  too  long  gone  hungry  and  unfed, 
leaped  towards  some  possible  satisfaction.  It  was  in- 
credible; it  was,  of  course,  a  dream.  But  judgment 
wavered ;  increasing  terror  ate  his  will  away.  Violence 
and  sweetness,  relief  and  degradation,  fought  in  his  soul, 
as  he  trembled  before  a  power  that  now  slowly  mastered 
him.  This  glee  and  loathing  formed  their  ghastly 
partnership.  He  could  have  strangled  the  woman  where 
she  stood.  Equally,  he  could  have  knelt  and  kissed  her 
feet. 

The  vehemence  of  the  conflict  paralysed  him. 

"A  mother's  hands  .  .  ."  he  murmured  at  length,  the 


3i2  The  Wolves  of  God 

words  escaping-  like  bubbles  that  rose  to  the  surface  of  a 
seething  cauldron  and  then  burst. 

And  the  woman  smiled  as  though  she  read  his  mind 
and  saw  his  little  trembling-.  The  smile  crept  down  from 
the  eyes  towards  the  mouth ;  he  saw  her  lips  part  slightly ; 
he  saw  her  teeth. 

But  her  reply  once  more  transfixed  him.  Two 
syllables  she  uttered  in  a  voice  of  iron  : 

"Louvain." 

» 

The  sound  acted  upon  him  like  a  Word  of  Power 
in  some  Eastern  fairy  tale.  It  knit  the  present  to  a  past 
that  he  now  recognized  could  never  die.  Humanity  had 
not  advanced.  The  hidden  source  of  'his  secret  joy 
began  to  glow.  For  this  woman  focused  in  him  passions 
that  life  had  hitherto  denied,  pretending  they  were 
atrophied,  and  the  primitive  male,  the  naked  savage  rose 
up,  with  glee  in  its  lustful  eyes  and  blood  upon  its  lips. 
Acquired  civilization,  a  pitiful  mockery,  split  through  its 
thin  veneer  and  fled. 

"Belgian  .  .  .  Louvain  .  .  .  Mother  .  .  ."  he  whis- 
pered, yet  astonished  at  the  volume  of  sound  that  now 
left  his  mouth.  His  voice  had  a  sudden  fullness.  It 
seemed  a  cave-man  roared  the  words. 

She  touched  his  hand,  and  he  knew  a  sudden  intensi- 
fication of  life  within  him ;  immense  energy  poured 
through  his  veins;  a  mediaeval  spirit  used  his  eyes; 
great  pagan  instincts  strained  and  urged  against  his 
heart,  against  his  very  muscles.  He  longed  for  action. 

And  he  cried  aloud  :  "  I  am  with  you,  with  you  to  the 
end  !  " 

Her  spell  had  vivified  beyond  all  possible  resistance 
that  primitive  consciousness  which  is  ever  the  bed-rock 
of  the  human  animal. 

A  racial  memory,  inset  against  the  forest  scenery, 
flashed  suddenly  through  the  depths  laid  bare.  Below 
a  sinking  moon  dark  figures  flew  in  streaming  lines  and 


"Vengeance  is  Mine" 

groups ;  tormented  cries  went  down  the  wind ;  he  saw 
torn,  blasted  trees  that  swayed  and  rocked;  there  was 
a  leaping-  fire,  a  gleaming  knife,  an  altar.  He  saw  a 
sacrifice. 

It  flashed  away  and  vanished.  In  its  place  the  woman 
stood,  with  shining  eyes  fixed  on  his  face,  one  arm  out- 
stretched, one  hand  upon  his  flesh.  She  shifted  slightly, 
and  her  cloak  swung  open.  He  saw  clinging  skins 
wound  closely  about  her  figure;  leaves,  flowers  and 
trailing  green  hung  from  her  shoulders,  fluttering  down 
the  lines  of  her  triumphant  physical  beauty.  There  was 
a  perfume  of  wild  roses,  incense,  ivy  bloom,  whose 
subtle  intoxication  drowned  his  senses.  He  saw  a 
sparkling  girdle  round  the  waist,  a  knife  thrust  through 
it  tight  against  the  hip.  And  his  secret  joy,  the  glee, 
the  pleasure  of  some  unlawful  and  unholy  lust  leaped 
through  his  blood  towards  the  abandonment  of 
satisfaction. 

The  moon  revealed  a  glimpse,  no  more.  An  instant 
he  saw  her  thus,  half  savage  and  half  sweet,  symbol  of 
primitive  justice  entering  the  present  through  the  door 
of  vanished  centuries- 

The  cloak  swung  back  again,  the  outstretched  hand 
withdrew,  but  from  a  world  he  knew  had  altered. 

To-day  sank  out  of  sight.  The  moon  shone  pale  with 
terror  and  delight  on  Yesterday. 


Across  this  altered  world  a  faint  new  sound  now 
reached  his  ears,  as  though  a  human  wail  of  anguished 
terror  trembled  and  changed  into  the  cry  of  some  cap- 
tured helpless  animal.  He  thought  of  a  wolf  apart  from 
the  comfort  of  its  pack,  savage  yet  abject.  The  despair 
of  a  last  appeal  was  in  the  sound.  It  floated  past,  it 
died  away.  The  woman  moved  closer  suddenly.  » * 

U 


314  The  Wolves  of  God 

"All  is  prepared/'  she  said,  in  the  same  low,  silvery 
voice;  "we  must  not  tarry.  The  equinox  is  come,  the  tide 
of  power  flows.  The  sacrifice  is  here;  we  hold  him  fast. 
We  only  awaited  you."  Her  shining1  eyes  were  raised  to 
his.  "Your  soul  is  with  us  now?"  she  whispered. 

"My  soul  is  with  you." 

"And  midnight,"  she  continued,  "is  at  hand.  We 
use,  of  course,  their  methods.  Henceforth  the  gods — 
their  old-world  gods — shall  work  on  our  side.  They 
demand  a  sacrifice,  and  justice  has  provided  one." 

His  understanding  cleared  still  more  then ;  the  last 
veil  of  confusion  was  drawing  from  his  mind.  The  old, 
old  names  went  thundering  through  his  consciousness — 
Odin,  Wotan,  Moloch — accessible  ever  to  invocation  and 
worship  of  the  rightful  kind.  It  seemed  as  natural  as 
though  he  read  in  his  pulpit  the  prayer  for  rain,  or  gave 
out  the  hymn  for  those  at  sea.  That  was  merely  an 
empty  form,  whereas  this  was  real.  Sea,  storm  and 
earthquake,  all  natural  activities,  lay  under  the  direction 
of  those  elemental  powers  called  the  gods.  Names 
•changed,  the  principle  remained. 

"Thdir  weather  shall  be  ours,"  he  cried,  with  sudden 
passion,  as  a  memory  of  unhallowed  usages  he  had 
thought  erased  from  life  burned  in  him ;  while,  stranger 
still,  resentment  stirred — revolt — against  the  system, 
against  the  very  deity  he  had  worshipped  hitherto.  For 
these  had  never  once  interfered  to  help  the  cause  of  right ; 
their  feebleness  was  now  laid  bare  before  his  eyes.  "And 
a  twofold  lust  rose  in  him.  "Vengeance  is  ours!"  he 
cried  in  a  louder  voice,  through  which  this  sudden 
loathing  of  the  cross  poured  hatred.  "  Vengeance  and 
justice  !  No'W  bind  the  victim  !  Bring  on  the  sacrifice  !  " 

"He  is  already  bound."  And  as  the  woman  moved 
a  little,  the  curious  erection  behind  her  caug-ht  his  eye — 
the  piled  brushwood  he  had  imagined  was  the  work  of 
woodmen,  picnickers,  or  playing  children.  He  realized 
its  true  meaning-. 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"  315 

It  now  delighted  and  appalled  him.  Awe  deepened 
in  him,  a  wind  of  ice  passed  over  him.  Civilization 
made  one  more  fluttering  effort.  He  gasped,  he 
shivered;  he  tried  to  speak.  But  no  words  came.  'A 
thin  cry,  as  of  a  frightened  child,  escaped  him. 

"It  is  the  only  way,"  the  woman  whispered  softly. 
"We  steal  from  them  the  power  of  their  own  deities." 
Her  head  flung  back  with  a  marvellous  gesture  of  grace 
and  power;  she  stood  before  him  a  figure  of  perfect 
womanhood,  gentle  and  tender,  yet  at  the  same  time 
alive  and  cruel  with  the  passions  of  an  ignorant  and 
savage  past.  Hec  folded  hands  were  clasped,  her  face 
turned  heavenwards.  "I  am  a  mother,"  she  added, 
with  amazing  passion,  her  eyes  glistening  in  the  moon- 
light with  unshed  tears.  "We  all" — she  glanced 
towards  the  forest,  her  voice  rising  to  a  wild  and 
poignant  cry — "  all,  all  of  us  are  mothers  !  " 

It  was  then  the  final  clearing  of  his  understanding 
happened,  and  he  realized  his  own  part  in  what  would 
follow.  Yet  before  the  realization  he  felt  himself  not 
merely  ineffective,  but  powerless^  The  struggling  forces 
in  him  were  so  evenly  matched  that  paralysis  of  the  will 
resulted.  His  dry  lips  contrived  merely  a  few  words  of 
confused  and  feeble  protest. 

"Me  !  "  he  faltered.       "My  help ?  " 

"Justice,"  she  answered;  and  though  softly  uttered, 
it  was  as  though  the  mediaeval  towers  clanged  their 
bells.  That  secret,  ghastly  joy  again  rose  in  him ;  ad- 
miration, wonder,  desire  followed  instantly.  A  fugitive 
memory  of  Joan  of  Arc  flashed  by,  as  with  armoured 
wings,  upon  the  moonlight.  Some  .power  similarly 
heroic,  some  purpose  similarly  inflexible,  emanated  from 
this  woman,  the  savour  of  whose  physical  enchantment, 
Whose  very  breath,  rose  to  his  brain  like  incense.  Again 
he  shuddered.  The  spasm  of  secret  pleasure  shocked 
him.  He  sighed.  He  felt  alert,  yet  stunned. 

Her  words  went  down  the  wind  between  them  : 


316  The  Wolves  of  God 

"You  are  so  weak,  you  English,"  he  heard  her  ter- 
rible whisper,  "so  nobly  forgiving,  so  fine,  yet  so  for- 
getful. You  refuse  the  weapon  they  place  within  your 
hands."  Her  face  thrust  closer,  the  great  eyes  blazed 
upon  him.  "  If  we  would  save  the  children  " — the  voice 
rose  and  fell  like  wind — "we  must  worship  where  they 
worship,  we  must  sacrifice  to  their  savage  deities.  ..." 

The  stream  of  her  words  flowed  over  him  with  this 
nightmare  magic  that  seemed  natural,  without  surprise. 
He  listened,  he  trembled,  and  again  he  sighed.  Yet  in 
his  blood  there  was  sudden  roaring. 

"...  Louvain  .  .  .  the  hands  of  little  children  .  .  . 
we  have  the  proof,"  he  heard,  oddly  intermingled  with 
another  set  of  words  that  clamoured  vainly  in  his  brain 
for  utterance;  "the  diary  in  his  own  handwriting,  his 
gloating  pleasure  .  .  .  the  little,  innocent  hands.  ..." 

"  Justice  is  mine  !  "  rang  through  some  fading  region 
of  his  now  fainting  soul,  but  found  no  audible  utterance. 

".  .  .  Mist,  rain  and  wind  .  .  .  the  gods  of  German 
Weather.  .  .  .  We  all  ...  are  mothers.  ..." 

"I  will  repay,"  came  jjorth  in  actual  words,  yet  so  low 
he  hardly  heard  the  sound.  But  the  woman  heard. 

"  We!  "  she  cried  fiercely,  "we  will  repay  !  " 

"God!"  The  voice  seemed  torn  from  his  throat. 
"Oh  God— my  God!  " 

"  Our  gods,"  she  said  steadily  in  that  tone  of  iron, 
"are  near.  The  sacrifice  is  ready.  And  you — servant 
of  mercy,  priest  of  a  younger  deity,  and  English — you 
bring  the  power  that  makes  it  effectual.  The  circuit  is 
complete." 

It  was  perhaps  the  tears  in  her  appealing  eyes,  per- 
haps it  was  her  words,  her  voice,  the  wonder  of  her 
presence;  all  combined  possibly  in  the  spell  that  finally 
then  struck  down  his  will  as  with  a  single  blow  that 
paralysed  his  last  resistance.  The  monstrous,  half- 
legendary  spirit  of  a  primitive  day  recaptured  him  com- 
pletely;  he  yielded  to  the  spell  of  this  tender,  cruel 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"          317 

woman,  mother  and  avenging  angel,  whom  horror  and 
suffering  had  flung  back  upon  the  practices  of  uncivilized 
centuries.  A  common  desire,  a  common  lust  and  pur- 
pose, degraded  both  of  them.  They  understood  one 
another.  Dropping  back  into  a  gulf  of  savage  worship 
that  set  up  idols  in  the  place  of  God,  they  prayed  to  Odin 
and  his  awful  crew.  ... 

It  was  again  the  touch  of  her  hand  that  galvanized 
him.  She  raised  him;  he  had  been  kneeling  in  slavish 
wonder  and  admiration  at  her  feet.  He  leaped  to  do 
the  bidding,  however  terrible,  of  this  woman  who  was 
priestess,  queen  indeed,  of  a  long-forgotten  orgy. 

"Vengeance  at  last!  "  he  cried,  in  an  exultant  voice 
that  no  longer  frightened  him.  -'Now  light  the  fire! 
Bring  on  the  sacrifice  !  " 

There  was  a  rustling  among  the  nearer  branches,  the 
forest  stirred;  the  leaves  of  last  year  brushed  against 
advancing  feet.  Yet  before  he  could  turn  to  see,  before 
even  the  last  words  had  wholly  left  his  lips,  the  woman, 
whose  hand  still  touched  his  fingers,  suddenly  tossed  her 
cloak  aside,  and  flinging  her  bare  arms  about  his  neck, 
drew  him  with  impetuous  passion  towards  her  fare  and 
kissed  him,  as  with  delighted  fury  of  exultant  passion, 
full  upon  the  mouth.  Her  body,  in  its  clinging  skins, 
pressed  close  against  his  own ;  her  heat  poured  into  him. 
S'he  held  him  fiercely,  savagely,  and  her  burning  kiss 
consumed  his  modern  soul  away  with  the  fire  of  a  primal 
day. 

"The  gods  have  given  you  to  us,"  she  cried,  releasing 
him.  "Your  soul  is  ours!  " 

She  turned — they  turned  together — to  look  for  one 
upon  whose  last  hour  the  moon  now  shed  her  horrid 
silver. 


3i8  The  Wolves  of  God 


8 

This  silvery  moonlight  fell  upon  the  scene. 

Incongruously  he  remembered  the  flowers  that  soon 
would  know  the  cuckoo's  call;  the  soft  mysterious 
stars  shone  down ;  the  woods  lay  silent  underneath  the 
sky. 

An  amazing  fantasy  of  dream  shot  here  and  there. 
"1  am  a  man,  an  Englishman,  a  padre!"  ran  twisting 
through  his  mind,  as  though  she  whispered  them  to 
emphasize  the  ghastly  contrast  of  reality.  A  memory 
of  his  own  Kentish  village  with  its  Sunday  school  fled 
past,  his  dream  of  the  Lion  and  the  Lamb  close  after  it. 
He  saw  children  playing  on  the  green.  ...  He  saw  their 
happy  little  hands.  .  .  . 

Justice,  punishment,  revenge — he  could  not  disen- 
tangle them.  No  longer  did  he  wish  to.  The  tide  of 
violence  was  at  his  lips,  quenching  an  ancient  thirst.  He 
drank.  It  seemed  he  could  drink  for  ever.  These 
tender  pictures  only  sweetened  horror.  That  kiss  had 
burned  his  modern  soul  away. 

The  woman  waved  her  hand;  there  swept  from  the 
underbrush  a  score  of  figures  dressed  like  herself  in  skins, 
•with  leaves  and  flowers  entwined  among  their  flying  hair. 
He  was  surrounded  in  a  moment.  Upon  each  face  he 
noted  the  same  tenderness  and  terrible  resolve  that  their 
commander  wore..  They  pressed  about  him,  dancing 
with  enchanting  grace,  yet  with  full-blooded  abandon, 
across  the  chequered  light  and  shadow.  It  was  the  brim- 
ming energy  of  their  movements  that  swept  him  off  his 
feet,  waking  the  desire  for  fierce  rhythmical  expression. 
His  own  muscles  leaped  and  ached;  for  this  energy,  it 
seemed,  poured  into  him  from  the  tossing  arms  and  legs, 
the  shimmering  bodies  whence  hair  and  skins  flung  loose, 
setting  the  very  air  awhirl.  It  flowed  over  into  inani- 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"          3X9 

mate  objects  even,  so  that  the  trees  waved  their  branches 
although  no  wind  stirred — hair,  skins  and  hands,  rush- 
ing leaves  and  flying  fingers  touched  his  face,  his  neck, 
his  arms  and  shoulders,  catching  him  away  into  this  orgy 
of  an  ancient,  sacrificial  ritual.  Faces  with  shining 
eyes  peered  into  his,  then  sped  away;  grew  in  a  cloud 
upon  the  moonlight;  sank  back  in  shadow;  reappeared, 
touched  him,  whispered,  vanished.  Silvery  limbs 
gleamed  everywhere.  Chanting  rose  in  a  wave,  to  fall 
away  again  into  forest  rustlings;  there  were  smiles  that 
flashed,  then  fainted  into  moonlight,  red  lips  and  gleam- 
ing teeth  that  shone,  then  faded  out.  The  secret  glade, 
picked  from  the  heart  of  the  forest  by  the  moon,  became 
a  torrent  of  tumultuous  life,  a  whirlpool  of  passionate 
emotions  Time  had  not  killed. 

But  it  was  the  eyes  that  mastered  him,  for  in  their 
yearning,  mating  so  incongruously  with  the  savage 
grace — in  the  eyes  shone  ever  tears.  He  was  aware  of 
gentle  women,  of  womanhood,  of  accumulated  feminine 
power  that  nothing  could  withstand,  but  of  feminine 
power  in  majesty,  its  essential  protective  tenderness 
roused,  as  by  tribal  instinct,  into  a  collective  fury  of 
implacable  revenge.  He  was,  above  all,  aware  of 
motherhood — of  mothers.  And  the  man,  the  male,  the 
father  in  him  rose  like  a  storm  to  meet  it. 

From  the  torrent  of  voices  certain  sentences  emerged ; 
sometimes  chanted,  sometimes  driven  into  his  whirling 
mind  as  though  big  whispers  thrust  them  down  his  ears. 
"You  are  with  us  to  the  end,"  he  caught.  "We  have 
the  proof.  And  punishment  is  ours  !  " 

It  merged  in  wind,  others  took  its  place  : 
"We  hold  him  fast.      The  old  gods  wait  and  listen." 
The  body   of  rushing  whispers  flowed  like  a  storm- 
wind  past. 

A  lovely  lface,  fluttering  close  against  his  own,  paused 
an  instant,  and  starry  eyes  gazed  into  his  with  a  passipn 
of  gratitude,  dimming  a  moment  their  stern  fury  with  a 


320  The  Wolves  of  God 

mother's  tenderness':  "For  the  little  ones  ...  it  is  neces- 
sary, it  is  the  only  way.  .  .  .  Our  own  children.  ..." 
The  face  went  out  in  a  gust  of  blackness,  as  the  chorus 
rose  with  a  new  note  of  awe  and  reverence,  and  a 
score  of  throats  uttered  in  unison  a  single  cry  :  "  The 
raven  !  The  White  Horses  !  His  signs  !  Great  Odin 
hears  !  " 

He  saw  the  great  dark  bird  flap  slowly  across  the 
clearing,  and  melt  against  the  shadow  of  the  giant  beech  ; 
he  heard  its  hoarse,  croaking  note ;  the  crowds  of  heads 
bowed  low  before  its  passage.  The  White  Horses  he 
did  not  see^;  only  a  sound  as  of  considerable  masses  of 
air  regularly  displaced  was  audible  far  overhead.  But 
the  veiled  light,  as  though  great  thunder-clouds  had 
risen,  he  saw  distinctly.  The  sky  above  the  clearing 
where  he  stood,  panting  and  dishevelled,  was  blocked 
by  a  mass  that  owned  unusual  outline.  These  clouds 
now  topped  the  forest,  hiding  the  moon  and  stars.  The 
flowers  went  out  like  nightlights  blown.  The  wind 
rose  slowly,  then  with  sudden  violence.  There  was  a 
roaring  in  the  tree-tops.  The  branches  tossed  and 
shook. 

"The  White  Horses!  "  cried  the  voices,  in  a  frenzy 
of  adoration.  "  He  is  here  !  " 

It  came  swiftly,  this  collective  mass ;  it  was  both  apt 
and  terrible.  There  was  an  immense  footstep.  It  was 
there. 

Then  panic  seized  him,  he  felt  an  answering  tumult 
in  himself,  the  Past  surged  through  him  like  a  sea  at 
flood.  Some  inner  sight,  peering  across  the  wreckage 
of  To-day,  perceived  an  outline  that  in  its  size  dwarfed 
mountains,  a  pair  of  monstrous  shoulders,  a  face  that 
rolled  througfh  a  full  quarter  of  the  heavens.  Above  the 
ruin  of  civilization,  now  fulfilled  in  the  microcosm  of  his 
own  being,  the  menacing  shadow  of  a  forgotten  deity 
peered  down  upon  the  earth,  yet  upon  one  de»tail  of  it 
chiefly — the  human  group  that  had  been  wildly  dancing, 


"  Vengeance  as  Mine  "  321 

but  that  now  chanted  in  solemn  conclave  about  a  forest 
altar. 

For  some  minutes  a  dead  silence  reigned ;  the  pouring 
winds  left  emptiness  in  which  no  leaf  stirred;  there  was 
a  hush,  a  stillness  that  could  be  felt.  The  kneeling 
figures  stretched  forth  a  level  sea  of  arms  towards  the 
altar;  from  the  lowered  heads  the  hair  hung  down  in 
torrents,  against  which  the  naked  flesh  shone  white; 
the  skins  upon  the  rows  of  backs  gleamed  yellow.  The 
obscurity  deepened  overhead.  It  was  the  time  of 
adoration.  He  knelt  as  well,  arms  similarly  out- 
stretched, while  the  lust  of  vengeance  burned  within 
him. 

Then  came,  across  the  stillness.,  the  stirring  of  big 
wings,  a  rustling  as  the  great  bird  settled  in  the  higher 
branches  of  the  beech.  The  ominous  note  broke  through 
the  silence ;  and  with  one  accord  the  shining  backs  were 
straightened.  The  company  rose,  swayed,  parting  into 
groups  and  lines.  Two  score  voices  resumed  the  solemn 
chant.  The  throng  of  pallid  faces  passed  to  and  fro  like 
great  fire-flies  that  shone  and  vanished.  He,  too,  heard 
his  own  voice  in  unison,  while  his  feet,  as  with  instinc- 
tive knowledge,  trod  the  same  measure  that  the  others 
trod. 

Cut  of  this  tumult  and  clearly  audible  above  the 
chorus  and  the  rustling  feet  rang  out  suddenly,  in  a 
sweetly  fluting  tone,  the  leader's  voice  : 

"The  Fire  !      But  first  the  hands  !  " 

A  rush  of  figures  set  instantly  towards  a  thicket  where 
the  underbrush  stood  densest.  Skins,  trailing  flowers, 
bare  waving  arms  and  tossing  hair  swept  past  on  a 
burst  of  perfume.  It  was  as  though  the  trees  themselves 
sped  by.  And  the  torrent  of  voices  shook  the  very  air 
in  answer  : 

"The  Fire  !       But  first— the  hands  !  " 

Across  this  roaring  volume  pierced  then,  once  again, 
that  wailing  sound  which  seemed  both  human  and  non- 


322  The  Wolves  of  God 

human — the  anguished  cry  as  of  some  lonely  wolf  irv 
metamorphosis,  apart  from  the  collective  safety  of  the 
pack,  abjectly  terrified,  feeling-  the  teeth  of  the  final  trap, 
and  knowing  the  helpless  feet  within  the  steel.  There 
was  a  crash  of  rending  boughs  and  tearing  branches. 
There  was  a  tumult  in  the  thicket,  though  of  brief  dura- 
tion— then  silence. 

He  stood  watching,  listening,  overmastered  by  a 
diabolical  sensation  of  expectancy  he  knew  to  be 
atrocious.  Turning  in  the  direction  of  the  cry,  his 
straining  eyes  seemed  filled  with  blood ;  in  his  temples 
the  pulses  throbbed  and  hammered  audibly.  The  next 
second  he  stiffened  into  a  stone-like  rigidity,  as  a  figure, 
struggling  violently  yet  half  collapsed,  was  borne  hur- 
riedly past  by  a  score  of  eager  arms  that  swept  it  towards 
the  beech  tree,  and  then  proceeded  to  fasten  it  in  an 
upright  position  against  the  trunk.  It  war.  a  man  bound 
tight  with  thongs,  adorned  with  leaves  and  flowers  and 
trailing  green.  The  face  was  hidden,  for  the  head 
sagged  forward  on  the  breast,  but  he  saw  the  arms  forced 
flat  against  the  giant  trunk,  held  helpless  beyond  all 
possible  escape;  he  saw  the  knife,  poised  and  aimed  by 
slender,  graceful  fingers  above  the  victim's  wrists  laid 
bare;  he  saw  the — hands. 

"An  eye  for  an  eye,"  he  heard,  "a  tooth  for  a  tooth  !  " 
It  rose  in  awful  chorus.  Yet  this  time,  although 
the  words  roared  close  -about  him,  they  seemed  farther 
away,  as  if  wind  brought  them  through  the  crowding  trees 
from  far  off. 

"  Light  the  fire  !  Prepare  the  sacrifice  !  "  came  on  a 
following  wind;  and,  while  strange  distance  held  the 
voices  as  before,  a  new  faint  sound  now  audible  was  very 
close.  There  was  a  crackling.  Some  ten  feet  beyond  the 
tree  a  column  of  thick  smoke  rose  in  the  air ;  he  was  aware 
of  heat  not  meant  for  modern  purposes;  of  yellow  light 
that  was  not  the  light  of  stars. 

The    figure    writhed,  •  and    the   face    swung    suddenly 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"          323 

sideways.  Glaring  with  panic  hopelessness  past  the 
judg-e  and  past  the  hanging  knife,  the  eyes  found  his  own. 
There  was  a  pause  of  perhaps  five  seconds,  but  in  these 
five  seconds  centuries  rolled  by.  The  priest  of  To-day 
looked  down  into  the  well  of  time.  For  five  hundred 
years  ,he  gazed  into  those  twin  eyeballs,  glazed  with  the 
abject  terror  of  a  last  appeal.  They  recognized  one 
another. 

The  centuries  dragged  appallingly.  The  drama  of 
civilization,  in  a  sluggish  stream,  went  slowly  by,  halting, 
meandering,  losing  itself,  then  reappearing.  Sharpest 
pains,  as  of  a  thousand  knives,  accompanied  its  dreadful, 
endless  lethargy.  Its  million  hesitations  made  him  suffer 
a  million  deaths  of  agony.  Terror,  despair  and  anger, 
all  futile  and  without  effect  upon  its  progress,  destroyed 
a  thousand  times  his  soul,  which  yet  some  hope — a 
towering,  indestructible  hope — a  thousand  times  renewed. 
This  despair  and  hope  alternately  broke  his  being,  ever 
to  fashion  it  anew.  His  torture  seemed  not  of  this  world. 
Yet  hope  survived.  The  sluggish  stream  moved  onward, 
forward.  .  .  . 

There  came  an  instant  of  sharpest,  dislocating  torture. 
The  yellow  light  grew  slightly  brighter.  He  saw  the 
eyelids  flicker. 

It  was  at  this  moment  he  realized  abruptly  that  he 
stood  alone,  apart  from  the  others,  unnoticed  apparently, 
perhaps  forgotten;  his  feet  held  steady;  his  voice,  no 
longer  sang.  And  at  this  discovery  a  quivering  shock 
ran  through  his  being,  as  though  the  will  were  suddenly 
loosened  into  a  new  activity,  yet  an  activity  that  halted 
between  two  terrifying  alternatives. 

It  was  as  though  the  flicker  of  those  eyelids  loosed  a 
spring. 

Two  instincts,  clashing  in.  his  being,  fought  furiously 
for  the  mastery.  One,  ancient  as  this  sacrifice,  savage  as 
the  legendary  figure  brooding  in  the  heavens  above  him, 
battled  fiercely  with  another,  acquired  more  recently  in 


324  The  Wolves  of  God 

human  evolution,  >fhat  had  not  yet  crystallized  into  per- 
manence. He  saw  a  child,  playing-  in  a  Kentish  orchard 
with  toys  and  flowers  the  little  innocent  hands  made 
living  ...  he  saw  a  lowly  manger,  figures  kneeling-  round 
it,  and  one  star  shining  overhead  in  piercing-  and 
prophetic  beauty. 

Thought  was  impossible ;  he  saw  these  symbols  only, 
as  the  two  contrary  instincts,  alternately  hidden  and 
revealed,  fought  for  permanent  possession  of  his  soul. 
Each  strove  to  dominate  him ;  it  seemed  that  violent  blows 
were  struck  that  wounded  physically ;  he  was  bruised, 
he  ached,  he  gasped  for  breath  ;  his  body  swayed,  held 
upright  only,  it  seemed,  by  the  awful  appeal  in  the  fixed 
and  staring-  eyes. 

The  challenge  had  come  at  last  to  final  action  ;  the 
conqueror,  he  well  knew,  would  remain  an  integral 
portion  of  his  character,  his  soul. 

It  was  the  old,  old  battle,  waged  eternally  in  every 
human  heart,  in  every  tribe,  in  every  race,  in  every  period, 
Ihe  essential  principle  indeed,  behind  the  great  world-war. 
In  the  stress  and  confusion  of  the  fight,  as  the  eyes  of 
the  victim,  savage  in  victory,  abject  in  defeat — the  appeal- 
ing eyes  of  that  animal  face  against  the  tree  stared  with 
their  awful  blaze  into  his  own,  this  flashed  clearly  over 
him.  It  was  the  battle  between  might  and  right,  between 
love  and  hate,  forgiveness  and  vengeance,  Christ  and 
th^  Devil.  He  heard  the  menacing  thunder  of  "an  eye 
for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,"  then  above  its  angry 
volume  rose  suddenly  another  small  silvery  voice  that 
pierced  with  sweetness: — "Vengeance  is  mine,  I  will 
repay  ..."  sang  through  him  as  with  unimaginable 
hope. 

Something  became  incandescent  in  him  then.  He 
realized  a  singular  merging  of  powers  in  absolute  oppo- 
sition to  each  other.  It  was  as  though  they  harmonized. 
Yet  it  was  through  this  small,  silvery  voice  the  apparent 
magic  came.  The  words,  of  course,  were  his  own  in 


"Vengeance  is  Mine"  325 

memory,  but  they  rase  from  his  modern  soul,  now  re- 
awakening. .  .  .  He  started  painfully.  He  noted  again 
that  he  stood  apart,  alone,  perhaps  forgotten  of  the 
others.  The  woman,  leading  a  dancing  throng  about  the 
blazing  brushwood,  was  far  from  him.  Her  mind,  too 
sure  of  his  compliance,  had  momentarily  left  him.  The 
chain  was  weakened.  The  circuit  knew  a  break. 

But  this  sudden  realization  was  not  of  spontaneous 
ongin.  His  heart  had  not  produced  it  of  its  own  accord. 
The  unholy  tumult  of  the  orgy  held  him  too  slavishly  in 
its  awful  sway  for  the  tiny  point  of  his  modern  soul 
to  have  pierced  it  thus  unaided.  The  light  flashed  to  him 
from  an  outside,  natural  source  of  simple  loveliness — the 
singing  of  a  bird.  From  the  distance.,  faint  and  exquisite, 
there  had  reached  him  the  silvery  notes  of  a  happy  thrush, 
awake  in  the  night,  and  telling  its  joy  over  and  over 
again  to  itself.  The  innocent  beauty  of  its  song  came 
through  the  forest  and  fell  into  his  soul.  .  .  . 

The  eyes,  he  became  aware,  had  shifted,  focusing 
now  upon  an  object  nearer  to  them.  The  knife  was 
moving.  There  was  a  convulsive  wriggle  of  the  body, 
the  head  dropped  loosely  forward,  no  cry  was  audible. 
But,  at  the  same  moment,  the  inner  battle  ceased  and 
an  unexpected  climax  came.  Did  the  soul  of  the  bully 
faint  with  fear?  Did  his  spirit  leave  him  at  the  actual 
touch  of  earthly  vengeance?  The  watcher  never  knew. 
In  that  appalling  moment  when  the  knife  was  about  to 
begin  the  mission  "that  the  fire  would  complete,  the  roar 
of  inner  battle  ended  abruptly,  and  that  small  silvery 
voice  drew  the  words  of  invincible  power  from  his  re- 
awakening so>ul.  "Ye  do  it  also  unto  me  ..."  pealed 
o'er  the  forest. 

He  reeled.  He  acted  instantaneously.  Yet  before  he 
had  dashed  the  knife  from  the  hand  of  the  executioner, 
scattered  the  pile  of  blazing  wood,  plunged  through  the 
astonished  worshippers  with  a  violence  of  strength  that 
amazed  even  himself ;  before  he  had  torn  the  thongs  apart 


326  The  Wolves  of  God 

and  loosened  the  fainting-  victim  from  the  tree;  before 
he  had  uttered  a  single  word  or  cry,  though  it  seemed 
to  him  he  roared  with  a  voice  of  thousands — he  witnessed 
a  sight  that  came  surely  from  the  Heaven  of  his  earliest 
childhood  days,  from  that  Heaven  whose  God  is  love 
and  whose  forgiveness  was  taught  him  at  his  mother's 
knee. 

With  superhuman  rapidity  it  passed  before  him  and 
was  gone.  Yet  it  was  no  earthly  figure  that  emerged 
from  the  forest,  ran  with  this  incredible  swiftness  past 
the  startled  throng,  and  reached  the  tree.  He  saw  the 
shape ;  the  same  instant  it  was  there ;  wrapped  in  light, 
as  though  a  flame  from  the  sacrificial  fire  flashed  past 
him  over  the  ground.  It  was  of  an  incandescent  bright- 
ness, yet  brightest  of  all  were  the  little  outstretched 
hands.  These  were  of  purest  gold,  of  a  brilliance  incredibly 
shining. 

It  was  no  earthly  child  that  stretched  forth  these  arms 
of  generous  forgiveness  and  took  the  bewildered  prisoner 
by  the  hand  just  as  the  knife  descended  and  touched  the 
helpless  wrists.  The  thongs  were  already  loosened,  and 
the  victim,  fallen  to  his  knees,  looked  wildly  this  way  and 
that  for  a  way  of  possible  escape,  when  the  shining  hands 
were  laid  upon  his  own.  The  murderer  rose.  Another 
instant  and  the  throng  must  have  been  upon  him,  tearing 
him  limb  from  limb.  But  the  radiant  little  face  looked 
down  into  his  own  ;  she  raised  him  to  his  feet ;  with  super- 
human swiftness  she  led  him  through  the  infuriated  con- 
course as  though  he  had  become  invisible,  guiding  him 
safely  past  the  furies  into  the  cover  of  the  trees.  Close 
before  his  eyes,  this  happened,;  he  saw  the  waft  of  golden 
brilliance,  he  heard  the  final  gulp  of  it,  as  wind  took  the 
dazzling  of  its  fiery  appearance  into  space.  They  were 
gone.  .  .  . 


Vengeance  is  Mine"          327 


He  stood,  watching  the  disappearing  motor-cars, 
wondering  uneasily  who  the  occupaxts  were  and  what 
their  business,  whither  and  why  did  they  hurry  so  swiftly 
through  the  night?  He  was  still  trying  to  light  his  pipe, 
but  the  damp  tobacco  would  not  burn. 

The  air  stole  out  of  the  forest,  cooling  his  body  and 
his  mind ;  he  saw  the  anemones  gleam ;  there  was  only 
peace  and  calm  about  him,  the  earth  lay  waiting  for  the 
sweet,  mysterious  stars.  The  moon  was  higher;  he 
looked  up;  a  late  bird  sang.  Three  strips  of  cloud, 
spaced  far  apart,  were  the  footsteps  of  the  South  Wind, 
as  she  flew  to  bring  more  birds  from  Africa.  His  thoughts 
turned  to  gentle,  happy  hopes  of  a  day  when  the  lion 
and  the  lamb  should  lie  down  together,  and  a  little  child 
should  lead  them.  War,  in  this  haunt  of  ancient  peace, 
seemed  an  incredible  anachronism. 

He  did  not  go  farther ;  he  did  not  enter  the  forest ; 
he  turned  back  along  the  quiet  road  he  had  come,  ate 
his  food  on  a  farmer's  gate,  and  over  a  pipe  sat  dreaming 
of  his  sure  belief  that  humanity  had  advanced.  He  went 
home  to  his  hotel  soon  after  midnight.  He  slept  well, 
and  next  day  walked  back  the  four  miles  from  the 
hospitals,  instead  of  using  thw  car.  Another  hospital 
searcher  walked  with  him.  They  discussed  the  news. 

"The  weather's  better  anyhow,"  said  his  companion. 
41  In  our  favour  at  last  !  " 

"That's  something,"  he  agreed,  as  they  passed  a 
gang  of  prisoners  and  crossed  the  road  to  avoid 
saluting. 

"Been  another  escape,  I  hear,"  the  other  mentioned. 
"He  won't  get  far.  How  on  earth  do  they  manage  it? 
The  M.O.  had  a  yarn  that  he  was  helped  by  a  motor-car. 
I  wonder  what  they'll  do  to  him." 


328  The  Wolves  of  God 

"  Oh,  nothing-  *  much.  Bread  and  water  and  extra 
work,  I  suppose?  " 

The  other  laughed.  "I'm  not  so  sure,"  he  said 
lightly.  "  Humanity  hasn't  advanced  very  much  in  that 
kind  of  thing." 

A  fugitive  memory  flashed  for  an  instant  through  the 
other's  brain  as  he  listened.  He  had  an  odd  feeling  for 
a  second  that  he  had  heard  this  conversation  before  some- 
where. A  ghostly  sense  of  familiarity  brushed  his  mind, 
then  vanished.  At  dinner  that  night  the  table  in  front  of 
him  was  unoccupied.  He  did  not,  however,  notice  that  it 
was  unoccupied. 


PRINTED  BT  CASSELL  &  COMPANY,  LIMITED,  LA  BELLE  SAUVAGE,  LONDON,  E.G. 4 

F.  35.421 


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